Deity
by Fantastical Queen Ebony Black
Summary: A modern day rendition of the Uchiha tragedy. The problem with humans, you see, is that we're more entranced with our fantasies than reality... [AU, Complete]
1. Prologue

**Deity**

by Ebony

Prologue

beginning notes: The title and all Russian words used came from **Dir en grey's 'Deity'**. Please **correct me** if I have any inaccuracies, expect** double meanings in everything** (as usual), enjoy and please review.

Warnings: Actually listing any would give away the story, but know it's a light R, so read at your own risk.

Blanket Disclaimer: I have no rights to the characters of Naruto, nor the lyrics or quotes I use. This writing, however, is mine.

_There's no way out, the only way out is to give in.  
When there's no way out, the only way out is to give in.  
How I love to, how I love to,  
How I love to give in…_

- from 'Empty', by Metric

_**-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-**_

_Dear Sasuke,_

_Please keep this letter to yourself, and only yourself. It was written for just you, little brother, and feel free to burn it with the matches in the third drawer of my dresser (the one I hide the chocolates in) if you feel it necessary. You can have what's left of the chocolate too._

_I guess the first thing I should say is that I'm sorry. I'm sorry that I've dragged you into this and that you'll be affected by it. You don't deserve any of it, but at this point, there really isn't anything I can do about it. There are many things I should do right now, but this apology is all I can really manage. Perhaps after all this has settled, if it ever does, I'll be able to give you an explanation, though I myself am still unsure of just what is happening. Isn't it strange, that even though I am the cause, at the centre of all this mess, I'm still uncertain?_

_Strange but fitting, I think._

_In any case, I don't know how much Mother or Father have told you, but I doubt much of what Father said was true and what Mother said was probably glossed, that is to say she was telling only half-truths. Please do not blame her for any of this. Father, though… Sasuke, please don't listen to what he'll say to you, and don't let him hurt you anymore. Please. I have a feeling I won't be around to protect you for much longer, and you're going to have to start standing up for yourself. Remember what I kept telling you last night; it is not your fault, and he has no right to do what he does._

_Oh, there. That is the other thing I meant to say. I'm sorry for the way I acted last night, and sorry you had to see and experience what you did… It wasn't right of me. I beg you forget it. The truth is, I've come to care about you a bit too much, especially now that Shisui is gone – no, dead; you're not a child, no point in pretending like I'm hiding it from you. They've probably told you lots of lies about that too, and I can prove them wrong with nothing but your trust, which I hardly deserve. Not now._

_You see, Sasuke, I think there might be something wrong with me. People throw around words like 'genius' and 'perfect', but they don't really know what they're talking about. Perfection… is something human beings pursue, but can never reach. It's pointless but we still try, all so hard… Please forgive me; I've gotten everything all mixed up, and don't really know anything for certain anymore. I don't know what to tell you to make things clear._

_I've broken far too many of the promises I've made to you already. I don't want to destroy any more._

_All I really want you to know is that I love you, Sasuke, and I am sorry, so goddamn sorry… Sorry I didn't laugh or smile or make time for you more often, and sorry I let what Father did go on for as long as it has. I would take it all back if I could. I'd go back to those days in August, years ago, when we ate too much ice cream and laid in the shade all afternoon, just us, because I think those were some of the only times in my life I've ever been happy, and I have you to thank for that. You, Sasuke, are the only good part of me left._

_Looking back over this letter, it doesn't make all that much sense, but hopefully you'll know what I mean. I'm terribly, terribly sorry, little brother. Please don't remember me this way._

_Love,_

_Itachi_


	2. To be Born

**Deity**

Chapter 1 – Родиться

_(Родиться – rodit'sja (roh-deet-syah) – 'to be born', or 'to see the light')_

"_Does such a thing as "the fatal flaw," that showy dark crack running down the middle of a life, exist outside literature? I used to think it didn't. Now I think it does. And I think that mine is this: a morbid longing for the picturesque at all costs."_

- from _The Secret History_, by Donna Tartt

**_-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-_**

"He's perfect."

Mikoto gave a sigh heavy with exhaustion and ran a gentle thumb over the babe's cheek. Swaddled in soft white fabric – like the white walls, white sheets, white coverings on the windows – the child stared up at her in that way that new-borns do, with a mix of awe, confusion and curiosity. Beautiful. Innocent. Pure, which meant untainted (though perhaps soon to become).

"Isn't he?"

From where he sat next to the hospital bed, Fugaku nodded, looking just as tired as his wife did if not more so. "He is."

The infant squirmed a little.

"His eyes are blue, though…"

"The nurse said all babies have blue eyes for the first while. They'll get darker with time." Mikoto explained happily. "What do you think we should name him?"

"I think you should get some sleep."

"Funny name." She let herself lean back a little and rest her head against the pillow. "And you're probably right…"

Looking back down at the child – _her _child, _their_ child, that which they had created, _life!_ in all its glory – she found it amazing how happy she felt. Like there was nothing more in the world she could want.

Like it really was perfect.

**_-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-_**

June 9th.

Between the screams of his mother and the bloody waste from the womb that coated him, Uchiha Itachi was born. The fact that he was even conceived was a miracle in itself, as Mikoto had remained barren for such a long time that suspicion of sterility had crept in. However, it had been demolished by the pregnancy test that had finally announced, 'positive'; Mikoto had nearly collapsed in relief. And now, here he was – small, awake, _alive_ in his Father's arms.

Fugaku ended up settling on the name 'Itachi', not knowing why it fit so well.

Itachi was just like any other baby, thought slightly smaller than average and a little quieter as well. He had two proud parents who took care and loved him, a big house (that had been carefully baby-proofed beforehand), a shelf full of toys and baby books and a calico cat that watched him cautiously from the other side of the room.

But this was where the normality ended.

His parents were not sure when it started – of course, he was their first child, they thought, so they couldn't really have known the difference – but it seemed Itachi was a precocious child of the most extraordinary kind. He had picked up words quickly and by the time he was three, he was stealing books from his father's bookshelf and actually reading them to himself when he got bored (that or he would whisper quietly to the cat, who soon lost interest). When they enrolled him in preschool, it soon became apparent that Itachi was nothing like any of the other children in any way at all, and fell far from things like 'average' or 'normal'.

No, Itachi was _brilliant_.

And Fugaku could hardly be prouder.

_**-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-**_

It was uncanny, the way the child smiled. Like he knew things. Like he was thinking things, things he wasn't going to say, but instead keep to himself to dwell on and delve into until he really _knew_. All secret things.

There really was no way of figuring what sort of things they were either, as the boy chose to talk only of his own accord, often to make a particularly observant comment the likes children of which usually don't (or shouldn't). He laughed at odd times too, in light of things that were not funny in the least. Not to Mikoto, anyways.

In truth, it almost frightened her. She thought briefly – for a second or two but no longer – that perhaps there was something _wrong_ with Itachi. However, the thought was purged from her mind along with her breakfast from her stomach, now floating on the surface of the toilet water. Cheeks flushed and streaked with tears, she tried desperately to swallow the acids burning the back of her mouth, leaning against the bathroom wall for support.

Fugaku stood in the doorway.

"You're pregnant again, aren't you?"

She managed a nod, unable to tell if he was pleased or not, as her bangs had fallen over her face and obscured her field of view.

_**-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-**_

The following Thursday, over peas and mashed potatoes that were a little too buttery, Fugaku chose to break the news.

"Itachi."

The clink of cutlery against china. Four year old Itachi looked up, alert.

"Yes, Daddy?"

"You're going to be a big brother."

It was the most human Mikoto had seen their son look in a long time.

_**-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-**_

"Nii-san… _Nii-san…_!"

Itachi dog-eared the page of the book in his lap with deft fingertips while lifting his head to look at Sasuke, eyebrows raised in amused apprehension. The younger boy looked panicked, hands balled into fists at his sides. Trembling.

"What is it now, Sasuke?"

"Kitty isn't moving!"

Itachi sighed, leaning back against the tree he sat under. Rough patterns of bark dug into his back. "She's probably sleeping."

"She's not!" the younger protested, tears beginning to spring up in his eyes. He inhaled roughly. "_She's not!_"

"You mean she's dead?" said Itachi simply.

And at this, the five year-old burst into tears.

It became evident soon after he was born that Sasuke was not a lot like Itachi. He was a slightly clumsy child, quick to laugh as well as cry and though intelligent, he showed none of his brother's 'genius', as Fugaku was so fond of calling it. But even so, Itachi became rather protective and compassionate of and for his sibling. For this, his parents were somewhat (though only somewhat) glad, mostly due to the fact that their elder child had only shown a remote interest in relationships with anyone else beforehand. Of course, he had skipped from junior kindergarten right to grade one and then went from grade two onto grade four, so his classmates were all years older than he was, so it was going to be difficult. He was in many ways greatly _different_ from them and separated himself with keen deliberateness. Sasuke, it seemed, was one of the only people he ever willingly shared company with.

Yet the time Itachi and Sasuke spent together grew shorter and shorter as the years went by, and Itachi became wrapped up in advanced schoolwork and sports practices he diligently attended. In his closet were rows of uniforms and above them a shelf with photographs and trophies, neatly lined up. They were dusted daily by Mikoto.

Although Sasuke would pester his brother often, he would usually be turned down (and given a glance from his Father that stung for a while after) and told to play with the old cat he was fond of dragging around with him and sometimes attempting to ride on. He had called her 'Kitty' from the time he was small, and soon everyone had adopted that in place of her actual name, which Itachi could no longer remember.

Ten minutes later, Itachi had managed to calm Sasuke down enough to direct him to the spot where Kitty was. Still upset, Sasuke had insisted on his brother carrying him there. He was suspicious of being taken advantage of, yet Itachi complied anyways, hefting the boy up onto his back without complaint.

"T-there…" Sasuke sniffled once they had reached the spot, releasing a hand from Itachi's shoulder to point.

Itachi squinted and he could see, beneath an overgrown fern their mother had planted and probably forgotten about in their expansive backyard, the lower half of a cat with its spotted tail stretched out listlessly in the dirt. It was late spring and dew coated the feathery leaves, wetness glimmering in the hazy sunlight filtering through the flora around them. The world was oddly taciturn.

"I'm letting you down now," Itachi said. Sasuke nodded, and felt Itachi's arms loosen from his knees as he slid to the ground. By the time he had prevented himself from stumbling and regained his balance, Itachi had already crouched down in front of the plant. With hesitant hands, (he had surprised himself, actually, with the amount of time it took for him to actually perform the act), he pushed a large portion of the plant aside, its leaves rattling gently. Sasuke, behind him, whimpered.

Itachi found the scene just as Sasuke described. Kitty lay on her side in the dirt, head tilted on an angle that revealed the soft white of her neck (thick hairs of her winter coat coming lose to be replaced by the fine summer coat underneath). Itachi looked even closer. Her chest did not rise with breath; her tail did not twitch in annoyance as a large bug began to crawl over it. Her eyes stayed closed, and her limbs immobile.

He became aware that he was holding his breath.

It was beautiful in a most indescribable and haunting way. Every detail of the scene was intact, set perfectly; all the little flecks of dirt that clung to her messy coat and the way her greyed whiskers bent to the ground and the precise abstraction of shadow cast by the fern… Like a painting, colours vivid and jumping out to attack his eyes. More _real_ than anything he had ever seen before. No, it was almost surreal. Breathtaking. Beautiful.

Kitty was dead.

"Nii-san…"

He exhaled. "Just a moment, Sasuke."

Small fingers tugged at the hem of his shirt as he leaned forward and gingerly pressed his hand to the feline's chest. He felt sensations magnified to the point of being electric – The light spring breeze that smelled like rain and earth brushing casually against his shoulder. The slight throaty whimpers of Sasuke, and his naked feet kept scuffing at the dirt. The contrast of warmth and lack thereof where his hand dipped from honeyed sunlight into shadow. The softness of Kitty's fur as every individual hair brushed against his palm. Her bones and organs beneath the skin, pressing through. The lack of heartbeat. A silence so full -

He inhaled, and it felt _rich_.

"Nii-san?"

"Be quiet, Sasuke," he heard himself saying, feeling like he was somewhere else at that moment. His mind begged to stay in such a state of bliss, the words coming slurred and awkward on his tongue. "Kitty is… gone."

A thought struck Itachi: shouldn't he be feeling some sort of sadness right now?

Sasuke started crying once again, clinging to his brother's waist and refusing to let go. Itachi continued to stare at the corpse whilst whispering to him, an attempt at comfort though his voice was quivering – just slightly – as well. He could feel the cool wetness of his brother's face soaking through his shirt and onto his skin.

"It's alright, Sasuke. Kitty was old; things can only live so long before they die. She's probably somewhere better now."

Why did the words sound so forced?

"Mama said… Mama said when we die we go to Heaven… to be with God…"

"Maybe." Itachi stroked his brother's mussed head of hair gently. "Stop crying."

Sasuke shut his eyes and tried. He could feel Itachi's fingertips rub against the nape of his neck.

"We'll give her a funeral, alright? A nice one, out here, before it rains. Why don't you tell Mom and then go get some flowers that Kitty liked."

"The blue ones," mumbled Sasuke.

"Yes. Some blues ones." Itachi smiled. "She'd like that. Now stop crying, there's no need."

"But-but…" Sasuke was unable to look his brother in the eye. "But aren't you sad, Nii-san? Kitty isn't coming back… She's gone! Aren't you going to miss her? Aren't you _scared_?"

"Scared?"

What if Mama and Dad go away? What if _you_ go away, Nii-san? What if you go away forever and I never see you again?"

Itachi was quiet a while before finding an answer. "That won't happen, Sasuke. I'll stay with you… for as long as I can. I promise. I won't leave you."

"But what if you-"

There was a stir, and the sound of footsteps caused Itachi to draw back – a few moments before he had leaned down to Sasuke and… what _would_ he have done? he mused, as he honestly did not know what he had intended. Mikoto stood a few metres away, concern in her eyes.

"I thought I heard someone crying…" she said. "Did you get hurt, Sasuke?"

"Kitty's dead," said Itachi softly in his brother's place, knowing the younger wouldn't be able to answer without starting to weep again. "We're going to have a funeral."

"Oh…" her eyes followed Itachi's small gesture to the corpse beneath the fern. "Oh, I see. Well, Itachi, you have soccer practice in a half hour, do you want to wait until after, when Dad is home? We should leave soon…"

Her son shook his head firmly. "No. Now is better."

"Alright…"

Sasuke let go of Itachi's waist. "I'll go get the flowers."

As his sibling scampered off and his mother turned to follow, tentative, Itachi took another look at the cat and was once again bombarded with that overwhelming feeling. It wasn't human, no, it was something more spiritual, more animal, more raw, more _something_… something that tasted all too familiar. Like something he had been wanting for a very long time, a time more than the ten years of his life of then could contain. All of what he knew suddenly seemed overly dull in comparison. Every success he had every had seen, every one of those adjectives that meant the same as the next that meant 'brilliant' now meant absolutely nothing. This was so much more…

A yearning sparked inside of him, eliciting a hissed breath.

The sensation had begun to fade. He didn't chase it, knowing he would be unable to catch it. What was left was just a child in a garden with a dead cat. It was spring. He could smell it.

He exhaled.


	3. Victim

**Deity**

Chapter 2 – җéртва

җéртва – dzertva (dzyehrt-vah) - victim

Many thanks go to Kokuei no Onchuu, a dear friend who helped me out with her knowledge of anatomy and whatnot. -love-

_Rehearsal to Ourselves  
Of a Withdrawn Delight–  
Affords a Bliss like Murder–  
Omnipotent–Acute–  
We will not drop the Dirk–  
Because we love the Wound  
The Dirk Commemorates–Itself  
Reminds Us that we.died.   
_

- Emily Dickinson

**_-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог- боль-бог-_**

It was early November, but the Indian Summer that had come in the night before made it feel like August, with a drowsy stickiness in the air and an unusual heat that seemed heavy in Sasuke's lungs. He leaned back against the seat of the car and tilted his head a little so the wind coming in the half-open window could slap against his cheeks and rush over his forehead to play with his bangs. Out the window and in the distance, he could see the large metal frameworks that supported swooping black hydro lines rising up from the ground. The speaker near his ear played quietly, though he could catch bits of song beneath the sound of conversation coming from the two front seats.

_His brother's laughter…_

"So, Sasuke?"

He opened his eyes as he heard his name, blinking twice before the picture found focus.

Shisui smiled amiably at him in the rear-view mirror in between glances at the road. "How's fourth grade going for you?"

Sasuke shrugged. "Okay…"

"Just okay?"

"Kind of boring."

"Fourth grade is always boring," Shisui said, and Itachi nodded in agreement.

"Never any fun."

"What did we do in fourth grade anyways?"

"I can't remember…"

"Right now we're doing a lot of math. Triangles… uh, Geometry and that sort of thing." Sasuke added, quietly.

"_Triangles_." Itachi rolled his eyes.

Shisui laughed at this and began recounting something that had happened in math class to him as a kid (something to do with a substitute teacher and glue), and Sasuke smiled, pleased with his contribution.

Of all the many places in the world, the best place – his _favourite_ place – was in the backseat of Shisui's car, with Itachi and Shisui in the front seats. Shisui had only gotten the car a few months ago, but already it had already become routine for Shisui to drive the brothers home from school, although the three would often end up cruising aimlessly around town for however long they wanted. Itachi and Shisui talked about all sorts of things and listened to the radio; Shisui sometimes sang along, tunelessly, while Itachi fingers tapped out furious rhythms on his thighs. They did not ignore Sasuke, or treat him as if he were just another incompetent child like a lot of people did. Instead, they included him in the conversation and would sometimes even buy him ice cream (strawberry, his favourite) if none of them wanted to go home yet and just driving had gotten a little boring.

Sasuke suspected it was Itachi's favourite place too; it was, after all, the only place he would find his brother laughing and smiling without restraint. It was so very different than 'home'. Besides, their home was…

He put his thoughts on a semi-permanent halt as he laughed along with Shisui's story, soon becoming caught up in his cousin's light-hearted words. Shisui was all of sixteen years old, a year older than Itachi. He looked fairly similar as well, though his face was a bit more square (lines imprinted from his many Cheshire grins), his hair shorter and lighter, and his body bigger.

A book was suddenly dropped into Sasuke's lap, causing him to startle. Thick and slightly tattered at the edges, it seemed familiar; Sasuke thought he had seen it on Itachi's large bookshelf sometime earlier.

"Put that in my bag, would you?" said Itachi quietly, motioning to the knapsack sitting beside Sasuke in the seat.

"Add that one to the list of books we've told you to read when you're older," Shisui called back.

"Another?" Sasuke asked, feigning exasperation, and they all laughed again. The car jolted as they went over a slight bump in the road, and Sasuke's knees knocked against the back of the seat.

"So, what did you think of it?" Itachi asked Shisui.

"It was pretty good," commented Shisui. "I didn't like that one character though, what's-her-name… she bothered me. Stupid bitch, always nagging. Other than that, I thought it was great, as far as that sort of book goes. I liked that whole part at the lake, for sure, I didn't see that coming. The whole thing went along really fast and had some great dialogue…"

Itachi smiled slyly and rested his chin in his hands, raising his eyebrows at Shisui. "And the ending?"

"Seemed kind of spontaneous, but it worked."

The other shook his head and lowered his voice a little. "It was completely unrealistic, if you ask me."

"Oh?"

A falter, a small flicker of doubt could be seen in Shisui's expression (just a minute detail, but then, it is details of that sort, the peculiar and morbid, that make it beautiful, isn't it? _So human of you…_). Itachi had noticed. Sasuke, who was skimming the back of the book and reading along mutely at the time, didn't.

"Nii-san? What does…" he squinted, "ver-ti-gi-nous mean?"

"Dizzying," his brother replied curtly, then turned back to Shisui. "You didn't think so?"

"Well, I-"

"Such a silly way to kill yourself…" Itachi's voice dropped again to _piano_, reverberating lowly and incoherently to all but Shisui (who could hear painfully clearly, every syllable). "If you're going to do it with pills, you swallow them slowly, one at time. With vodka, preferably. If you swallow them all at once so recklessly you'll probably throw them all up. You know, companies have started making them with coating so if you take too many, you'll vomit. Clever, eh? But your stomach will detect the toxin if there's enough and you'll end up purging anyways.

"Strangulation without intent to sever the spinal cord is silly too, and messy. If you're going to hang yourself, make sure you break the neck. And slitting your wrists… That's mostly practice, for those not serious about it. They're usually found before they die, and its _murder_ to rehabilitate those tendons. If you really wanted to do the whole 'bloody bracelet' deal, it would be faster to slit vertically along that vein, though that still takes a while and is quite untidy." With a pale fingernail Itachi traced up the length of his arm, where a pale green vein could be seen traveling up beneath the skin like a trapped vine. "But if you _really_ wanted to die, you should cut the vein on your shoulder, though it's a bit hard to manoeuvre, or on your thigh; arteries everywhere, you can't tourniquet it, it doesn't clot and it bleeds _fast_. The jugular in your throat," he gestured a slitting motion across the paper white of his neck, "works well too. You would go _much_ quicker those ways…

"Though with that jugular, it's easier to take the whole head off, which is where guns-"

"Stop it," Shisui hissed.

There was a bout of quiet (Sasuke turned another page in the book, not listening), before Shisui laughed. It was not his usual laugh, which was carefree, loud and contagious. No, this one was tempered, sounding not quite forced but nervous. His fingers tightened on the wheel.

"You know, you really scare me sometimes, Itachi…"

"I know."

"Then why do you keep doing it?"

"Because it's fun?" Itachi suggested, and his smile widened. It was hard to tell if the dialogue was playful or serious.

"You have a sick sense of fun," the elder mumbled, and it was Itachi's turn to laugh.

A strained silence crept in. Sasuke figured he should say something, but could not think of anything at all. The few words of the conversation he had managed to catch made little (if perverse) sense. At that point, they were three blocks from the house the brothers lived in, a large house with an even larger yard situated on the edges of a subdivision. Shisui's family lived somewhere in the middle of the labyrinth of nearly identical houses, only a bike-ride away.

"Your Mom's still gardening?" Shisui remarked as they pulled up to the house. Mikoto, bent over in the flowerbed on the front yard, looked up and waved cheerily at them. Shisui waved back.

"Some of her flowers died from the frost last week," Itachi explained. "She's probably potting them and putting them indoors before the Indian Summer finishes and it's too cold…. Sasuke, can you get my bag? Thanks."

Sasuke lifted his brother's backpack, slipping the book inside quickly without finishing the sentence he was halfway through, and pushed the bag through the space between the front two seats. It was much heavier than his own, filled to the brim with textbooks and that sort of thing. Itachi, though 15, had already managed to work his way into grade 12 and was still passing with some of the best grades his high school had seen in its entire history, and balanced various sports and other things along with that. Some called him an overachiever – Itachi would usually say it was just enough to keep him busy.

"Thank for the ride," said Sasuke as he hopped out of the car.

"No problem, kiddo," Shisui said after him, then to Itachi, "I'm picking you up Thursday for football practice, right?"

Itachi nodded, smiled. There were another few seconds of silence, this one not awkward and dragged but pushing _forwards_, and then Itachi was stepping out of the car and onto the pavement, giving a small wave goodbye.

Shisui drove two blocks, stopped, and brought down his forehead to crash against the wheel.

**_-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-_**

_Home._

What a word that was.

And perhaps it was just that, then – nothing but a word. Words, of course, were just sounds with meaning tacked onto them to create language. They were then _categorized_ and given _rules_, and _proper usage_. "Home" in another language could mean something else entirely.

Usually attached to the word were pictures of houses and families, with a sort of warmth and comfort that can be found nowhere else. Groups of people smiling out from picture frames; people that loved each other and enjoyed life with a passion, or maybe just strangers kept together by blood and shared memories (_secrets_), and nothing else.

Sounds of a grand piano lilted from the living room and spread itself through the house in thin, sweet layers, sinking into the wallpaper and the flowers embroidered onto the carpet. The tune was pleasant and upbeat, right hand playing long runs of melody without a second's hesitation or a wrong note. It slowed for a bit before picking up again and waltzing off towards the ending, something darker hinted at in the now pounding harmonies that faded off into the finale. Then, only the steady ticking of the metronome.

It was a minute or so after the second has ended that Itachi finally pulled his hands away from the keys, the bench creaking as he shifted his weight backwards. He flexed his fingers one at a time, feeling each muscles stretch and his tendons tighten as he unfurled his fists. Turning off the metronome, he glanced at the clock, and then let his fingers drift back to the piano, picking a tune out of the air.

Sasuke grinned to himself as the music reached the slightly cluttered kitchen table. Bored of his videogames, he had come down for a snack and ended up staying to listen to Itachi playing for a few minutes that quickly turned into an eagerly spent forty. Despite and unable to help himself, Sasuke found that he was humming along (it was infectious). The song was his favourite of all pieces he had ever heard, one he often begged Itachi to play.

"He hasn't played that one in a while…" Mikoto murmured from the kitchen sink. She twisted the tap and the sound of gushing water against dishes muffled the piano, suds billowing up to lap at the counter. "You've been quiet today, Sasuke, is something the matter?"

Sasuke stopped humming.

"No. I'm just listening, that's all…"

"You sure?"

"_Yes_, Mom," he said. "Nothing at all." And then to change the subject: "What's for dinner?"

She shrugged. "I'm not sure. I've been outside almost all day, so I haven't thought about it. But your father should be home in a bit, I'll ask him, maybe. Well, what do you want?"

Sasuke paused to think. "Spaghetti."

"Spaghetti sounds great."

Both looked up to find Itachi now standing on the linoleum, playing idly with one of the chimes Mikoto had hung from a shelf by the door. Sasuke had hardly noticed that the piano had gone silent and the sudden quiet was overwhelming (empty).

"I think I have some." Mikoto opened the first cupboard, shut it, and then opened the second. "We do. Spaghetti it is then, boys."

Itachi was gone as quickly as he had come into the kitchen, his footsteps so light they were almost soundless. His books were still sitting on the piano, and after glancing at them quickly, Sasuke found himself tempted to sit down and play. He had taken piano for a while, but hadn't been very good at it (No, not at all – horrible, actually, he was completely terrible and it was a waste of time and money to be spent on him when he had no talent whatsoever, not like his brother, no, not like his brother, no, _no!_).

Sasuke decided to go to his room instead, and stayed there until dinner was ready at seven, as it was every night. And every night they would sit, his Father at the head of the table with a glass half-full of wine, his Mother on the right. Itachi would sit opposite her, and then Sasuke on the end (after he had gotten out the cutlery and napkins; that was his job). Sometimes they would say prayer, but this night was not one of those nights and they started eating right away. The lack of conversation was, of course, attributed to the fact that their mouths were all full of food.

Sasuke was careful with his eating habits, almost able to feel his Father's eyes inspecting and judging every detail of him. He kept the napkin within a quick hand's reach, fully aware he was a little messy with his food. Sauce, a dark orange-red, was spread over the plate and the noodles wove through it like a mess of lifeless worms. He swallowed them nonetheless. He knew from experience, it would not be smiled upon to leave a large amount of food on his plate with such a feeble an excuse as 'I'm not hungry'.

"Itachi," Fugaku said eventually, "Have you gotten your University applications from the school yet?"

Itachi continued twirling his spaghetti with his fork, occasionally taking a bite of the meal. "Yes, actually, I picked them up yesterday… I wanted to look at the brochures myself before-"

"We'll discuss it tomorrow night," Fugaku cut in. "After your piano lesson. You have practiced, haven't you?"

Sometimes, questions attain habits where they start taking the form of statements. This one came as an accusation.

Itachi stared at his plate.

"Yes, Father."

"As I'd expected." There was something rather satisfactory in the grin covered by the rim of his glittering wine glass.

Sasuke (not "listening") wiped a little smear of sauce from his chin.

_**-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-**_

_Home_.

What a place…

Even when looking back on it years later, Sasuke could remember that it took him fifteen steps to get from his bedroom to the doorway of his brother's, and twenty-one to the bathroom they shared at the end of the hall. The hallway was unlit save the light that peeked through cracks beneath doors and came up the staircase from the room below in a pale flood. It wasn't late, only about 8:30, but it felt like it was later for some reason and every noise he made seemed to stand out. Sasuke had taken six cautious steps of those fifteen when the floor creaked behind him a ways.

"Sasuke."

He turned around promptly at his Father's voice, the binder and book in his arms now pressed to his chest and his feet frozen in place. Fugaku looked him over from the doorway of the bedroom he and Mikoto shared, and then took a few steps out. His gait was commanding, making Sasuke flinch. Just that critical stare, just the way his name was said, just the way…

"I was…" Sasuke tried to force his body to relax a little from the minute scare. "I needed some help with my English homework, so… I was going to ask Nii-san."

Fugaku's eyebrows crinkled a little, the chiaroscuro of his face shifting.

"Your brother is busy, Sasuke. You know that."

"I-"

"He's working very hard right now," Fugaku went on, "to keep up his averages for University. You'll have to work just as hard if not harder, when you get to where he's at, Sasuke, and you need to respect that. I doubt he really has the time to help you out with your homework; it would just be a burden to him. Besides, why does a smart boy like _you_ need help on his homework anyways? You shouldn't need help. Surely you weren't having too much trouble…"

"N-no," said Sasuke, all too quickly. "I was just… checking the one question…. Sorry."

It sounded so small and quiet, and weak coming from his lips. What was the word? Pathetic. Yes, that was it. That word he knew the meaning of very well.

"If you need help, ask your Mother or myself in the future. I believe I've told you that before, Sasuke. I don't want to have to tell you again. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Father."

As his parent walked past at a certain distance of almost dangerous closeness – the rustling of clothing – Sasuke found his eyes squeezed tightly shut _(those aren't tears, I'm not crying, I'm not crying, I'm not!)_ and his hands clutching his books _hard_ until he heard his Father reach the bottom of the staircase. Only then he-

"Sasuke?"

Itachi was standing in the hallway now, in the rectangle of light cast by the open door. Music, this time coming from a stereo, was drifting out. Electric guitars and poetry – it was the CD Shisui got him for his birthday earlier that year, Sasuke recalled. He tried again to think of something to say, but ended up biting his lips shut instead.

"Are you alright?" Itachi asked, then laughed, "I sound like Mom, don't I?" and sighed, "Look, if you want help, I-"

"No," said Sasuke, now composed. "I don't really want to… I don't need any help, it's alright."

"Well, even if you _don't_," Itachi said, "do you want to come work in my room? I'd enjoy some company."

Rocking back on his heels, Sasuke tried to make it look like he had to stop and think about it.

"Okay. Um, thank you."

Itachi shook his head. "Don't thank me."

"But usually you don't let me…"

"Well, maybe I'm just in a good mood tonight," he suggested. And it was a lie, but neither minded if they knew. As an afterthought, Itachi began, "You know, Sasuke… it's… you…. Oh, never mind. Just come in." He reached out an arm to his brother once he was close enough and mussed his hair a little (Sasuke made a face at him), then moved his arm down to Sasuke's shoulder and squeezed. Just a little, but tightly.


	4. Torture

**Deity**

Chapter 3: мучéние

мучéние - muchenie (moo-chyeh-nee-eh) – torture

_One minute was enough, Tyler said, a person had to work hard for it, but a minute of perfection was worth the effort. A moment was the most you could ever expect from perfection. _

- Chuck Palahniuk, Fight Club

_**-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-**_

_Children are peculiar creatures in their innocence. They have innate curiosity, but it is not greed, not yet. There must be a sort of unspoilt bliss in that… In a way, they are superior to adults with their troubles, jobs, money and stressful lives, tainted minds and all._

_They are the untainted ones, ourselves in our most primitive state. Our state closest to "Godliness", if it can be put in those terms. And if only we could lose ourselves… if only we could revert back to that state, and wash ourselves entirely clean of "sin", if you want to call it that (assuming, of course, that we are not born in sin, and that in nature we are good). Just as Rousseau suggested during the Enlightenment, "We should return to nature."_

_Of course, not every child is in this way of brightness. Some are ruined at an early age and forced to grow up a little too fast, or maybe they were born, somehow, without that curiosity and pureness. They are delicate. When a child is forced to not be a child, crucial stages of development are hurried through or skipped entirely. It is not healthy. They become peculiar… with a sort of mental instability. Odd tendencies. Nightmares. A relenting dissatisfaction. All signs of the subconscious trying to communicate that _something is wrong_, and that glazing over it won't make things better_._ It can progress to the point of insanity, though the word has become overused. When one is truly insane they do not know it; it is being on the verge of losing yourself that is the most frightening…_

_More and more these days, I think that it is the average child, the one allowed to play and grow, and maintain its innocence for as long as possible, not naiveté but innocence… it is that child that is the perfect one._

_As it is said, 'maxima debetur puero reverntia'._

_The greatest respect is owed to a child._

_**-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-**_

"This is so fucking gay," Kiba grumbled under his breath, leaning against the dumpster.

Sasuke, hands shoved deep into his coat pockets, raised an eyebrow as he refused the urge to wince. "How so?"

"You know that soccer game we're having next recess?" Kiba received a nod in response. "I can't go. The teacher is making me stay in to redo that retarded math test that I failed!"

"Oh…" said Sasuke, suddenly feeling a bit guilty. He had scored nearly perfect on that test – nearly, of course, his work for the last question had gotten all mixed up and he had wound up with something all too wrong. "We'll have an odd number of people then…"

"It'll be fine, since we're playing with the regular teams," Kiba said. "Our team will do good; I mean we've got _you_, after all. I just really wanted to play… Goddamn, who needs math anyways? So faggoty…"

This time, Sasuke did wince. After being around Kiba for a while, one could not help but pick up on some of his angrier speech patterns, and Sasuke had accidentally let a word or two slip around Itachi one day earlier that year. (Immediately, his brother had given him a stern look.

"What did you say?"

"Er…" Sasuke's face began to colour red. Something caught suddenly in his chest and his gut felt like it was about to burst out onto the carpet. "That word…"

"Spit it out." He hardly ever saw his brother like this…

"F-faggot?"

"That one." Itachi sighed, slightly bitter. "That's a harsh word, Sasuke. It's not right for you to use it, especially when you don't know what it means."

Sasuke had made a strong point never to say the word again, though it was odd to him that whenever their Father said it – often in a slurred, condescending sort of way – Itachi stayed his silence.)

"I'm not really that good…" Sasuke said, and Kiba rolled his eyes.

"Oh come on, don't bullshit. You're tons better than me, at least. Besides, even if you weren't, you could just ask that crazy-talented brother of yours to teach you and you'd be pro in no time."

"Nii-san is-"

"Hey!" Kiba, suddenly distracted, elbowed Sasuke in the side and gestured. "I think that girl has a crush on you!"

Sasuke glanced over to where Kiba had pointed, and instantly one of the girls hid her face behind another girl's shoulder. The whole group of them started giggling in high-pitched cacophony.

Kiba laughed. "Go talk to her. She's kinda cute."

The Uchiha shrugged, not wanting to be bothered. "I don't really care… Look, let's go find the other guys."

"Sure thing, bud."

"Oh, and… could I sleep over at your place this weekend? I'll bring that video game you like."

Kiba nodded. "Yeah, I'm sure my folks will be fine with it. Any reason?"

"Not really," Sasuke answered. "I just don't feel like staying home this weekend. That's all."

**_-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-_**

Shisui, if asked, would promptly and truthfully answer that he considered Itachi to be both his best friend and worst enemy.

It hadn't always been this way, of course. The first time he had met Itachi (as far as he remembered) was at some family gathering in the summertime when they were little. Shisui, having been kicked out of the house for teasing their Grandmother's teacup dog, was searching the yard for a new playmate.

Itachi had been shuffling a pile of cards while sitting on the back porch, and after a few moments of pestering let Shisui sit next to him and began dealing. They played two games of Go Fish, Crazy Eights, and then Go Fish again – Itachi won all but one of the games and Shisui accused him of cheating. At first, he didn't like his cousin. Itachi was quiet, somewhat boring, not to mention _weird_. Shisui told him so, and Itachi just laughed.

The two didn't see much of each other until Shisui started high school as a grade nine and his family – just his two parents and himself – moved to the town Itachi lived in for work. Shisui didn't mind; they usually moved town every few years, and it was never very far. Though originally it had annoyed him that Itachi was a year younger, and yet a grade ahead of him, the two slowly grew closer. Itachi knew a lot of people, but said he didn't have many actual friends. Shisui found this slightly disheartening, yet typical of Itachi to say.

But really, it was quite a bit more complicated than that…

The car smelled of sweat and air freshener – not the most pleasant mix, but it wasn't unbearable. Shisui's hair was still messy from wearing a football helmet, and Itachi's was tied back in its usual ponytail. The Thursday night practice had started a little late in the evening, as the cheerleaders got the field right after school (and it encouraged the team to show up on time, to catch a glimpse of the girls in action to "motivate" them). By the time they had gotten out of the change room, it was already somewhat dark out, and Shisui found himself shivering. The Indian Summer still reigned during the day, but at night it was deathly cold.

"_God_," he muttered, taking the car around a corner, "that was a hard practice…"

"Well, there is the tournament next week," said Itachi plainly.

"Damn, I almost forgot…" Shisui sighed. "And we get report cards soon, don't we?"

Itachi nodded, and his cousin groaned. "Great; just _great_!"

"I'm sure it won't be that bad…" Itachi mumbled. He shifted, one hand reaching for the black radio dial.

Shisui shook his head. "No, don't turn it on. I've kind of got a headache now…"

"Oh, sorry."

"It's nothing, really, I've just been kind of stressed lately…"

"I see." Itachi settled back in his seat, head lolling to the side as his neck begged to give way in exhaustion. A mutual lull settled in between them as the drive continued, the glow of streetlights highlighting the edges of their silhouettes as they passed by every few seconds. The heater whirred, casting blasts of hot air onto the boys; it was so cold they had been able to see their breath as they waited for the heater to start working.

Shisui pulled up to his usual place by the curb outside Itachi's house. A seatbelt snapped open. He turned his head, intending to say something to Itachi, but those thoughts fled as he realized Itachi's face was closer – much closer – than it had been just a few seconds earlier. There were exactly two and a quarter seconds to breathe before the distance was closed and he felt Itachi's lips on his. The touch was light, but most definitely deliberate and not at all hesitant. Before the kiss could deepen, Shisui forced himself to pull away, trying to ignore the slightly confused look Itachi was giving him as he did.

"What are you doing?" Shisui whispered, though there was no need to be so hush about it.

"What do you mean?" asked Itachi in return, and by his look, Shisui suspected he already knew. "You were the one who-"

"Stop."

"But–"

"_Stop_. Just for a minute," Shisui said, and Itachi bit his lip, eyes darting to the bright blue letters of the digital clock next to the glowing heater controls.

"Alright. You have one minute."

_Trust Itachi to take it literally when he very well knows what I'm trying to get across…_ Shisui griped mentally, and attempted to regain his senses.

It was his fault, he supposed. As he and Itachi had grown closer, they had spent more and more time together, and more and more time _alone_. Sometimes, as cliché as he knew it was, Itachi truly did know him better than he knew himself, able to predict reactions and read his moods with skill that almost frightened him – no, it _did_ frighten him. And he had been scared out of his wits when he stopped looking at Itachi as a little brother and best friend, and more as best friend and… something else.

Besides, he had been the one who kissed Itachi first. He tended to blame it on the fact that he was half-drunk from a mix of soda and alcohol stolen from his parents liquor cabinets at the time, but that was only half of it. Itachi, being the peculiar thing he was, had kissed Shisui back with a sort of eagerness he hadn't been expecting but somehow came to enjoy. Itachi's fingers were gentle and familiar, his lips warm… they didn't have sex, of course, but after a couple of times it had gotten farther than Shisui thought it would. That first night had been earlier that year, in the spring. A month later, Shisui had started dating one of the cheerleaders (a pretty little brunette with C-cup breasts hidden under preppy T-shirts; she played trumpet in the concert band) and explained to Itachi it was a mistake; nothing more would come of it. They remained friends. Problem solved.

However, that October, Shisui found out his girlfriend had been cheating on him with one of the saxophone players. Their relationship had come to a swift end soon after.

And it was Itachi who had been there for Shisui to express frustration to, without question and without qualm. No one knew, of course. For the most part, they were just good friends, aside from the occasional time in private when Shisui just could not help himself. He did not like to think of himself as a _faggot_; he had never had interest in a boy before, but Itachi was… well, Itachi was Itachi. It was almost funny, how much he tried to use the thought to justify things. Sometimes he absolutely hated it, hated Itachi for letting him get away with it. Hated himself for getting himself into it, and liking it so damn much, and…

"It's been a minute," Itachi said finally, though Shisui knew it had been quite a bit more. "Should I… just go?"

"No, no," protested Shisui. "I didn't mean to…"

Itachi's long bangs were brushing against his shoulder, plump lips opened just a little in curiosity. It was absolutely amazing how feminine and… and just desirable Itachi could make himself look sometimes, the edge of his pale face high-lighted by street and star light. Like artwork. That was it. Itachi was like a prized piece of artwork, one Shisui wondered how he came to acquire. Though he was anti-social by nature, Itachi could have popularity if he wanted. He was great, not just good, at everything he attempted and knew how to work people… Oh, how well Shisui knew _that_.

Shisui only managed one, half-hearted and half-breathed, "Itachi…" before he gave in, a searing ecstasy blurred his vision as they met somewhere near halfway. One hand rose to cup his cousin's shoulder while his mouth opened and his tongue pushed into Itachi's mouth. The motions were sensual and yet senseless, giving Shisui a sort of release from everything that had been hanging over his mind and tirelessly harassing him for the past week. Any guilt about their relationship vanished for the time being, giving way to sweet release. Shisui didn't have to think, or worry; he could just enjoy the moment for once in his life.

Itachi pulled away for a moment, giving time for Shisui to mumble, despite himself, "What if your parents see?"

"I don't care," responded Itachi bitterly, delivering delicate kisses to Shisui's jawbone. "Let them see."

"But-"

"I don't get why you care so much if people know about this…"

"For someone so smart, you sure can act _stupid_ at times."

"And you like that, don't you…" Itachi mumbled quietly into his breath, the syllables too wispy for Shisui to understand.

His mouth found a certain spot on Shisui's neck just then, and his cousin became slightly short of breath, feeling his back press against the foggy car window. Itachi's hands were doing nothing to help this as they flitted down over his chest, down to his waist, slipping down a bit further… By this time, a large bulge was rising in Shisui's pants, and he found himself almost embarrassed (then again, it wasn't that hard to embarrass oneself around Itachi).

"You know what other people would do if they found out…" he hissed. "Besides, you're my cousin, that's sort of…"

Itachi ignored him, hand ducking his right hand beneath the waistband of Shisui's pants. A shudder ran up through Shisui's chest, followed by a feeling of panic as Itachi's fingers grazed the side of his waist, pausing, then pressing in intentionally.

"Itachi…"

"Gave up the whole 'bloody bracelet' thing, did you?" Itachi asked sadly as he broke the kiss, following the swollen ridges engraved in Shisui's skin. _These_, he could feel, were deep. _These_ must have bled quite a bit… "I thought maybe you had stopped… you wore a T-shirt the other day, you know, and without those horrible wristbands… I noticed." He closed his eyes, trying to count the do-it-yourself scars with his touch, but Shisui quickly pushed his hand away.

"You don't get it," he said curtly.

"Well, if you-"

"You _wouldn't_."

Itachi drew back into his own seat, watching as Shisui tried to fight his arousal and sudden need to vomit. He snapped the heat off, and the loud noise created by the heater died.

It had been just a week or two before the first night they had kissed that Itachi had confronted him. The weather had still been fairly cold then, so long-sleeved T-shirts didn't seem too suspicious, but Itachi had to be _different_ and figured it out all too easily. The scratches on Shisui's arms. None too deep, but the fact that they were even there was enough.

Self-infliction.

Cutting.

_Slice and dice._

Excuses seemed useless and pathetic to try against his cousin, so Shisui admitted to the accusations. Said it was nothing. Said he would stop. But Itachi saw they got worse. Shisui denied him an explanation once again, but said he would try. And he did try. He stopped for a while, and Itachi seemed satisfied, although he did have a nasty habit of glancing coldly in Shisui's direction whenever the subject came up at the lunch table (he did that whenever a gay remark was made as well, and gave a little smile.)

They hadn't seen each other much over the summer, since Shisui was busy with his other friends and his girlfriend. The marks faded into tanned skin. Nothing but a bitter memory of a hard time, but it was only a memory and the sting was gone. But then school started again, and it all… evaporated, and the sting was back – a taste he just couldn't get out of his mouth.

"…why?" Itachi asked, though he suspected he would not get any more out of his cousin.

"Like I said," Shisui said through his teeth, now obviously upset, "you wouldn't understand. You would never… Itachi, you're the child that every set of parents want. You're good at everything, and you don't… you don't make mistakes like the rest of us do. We're not like you; nowhere near. I'm an average student. I'm an average football player, if even that. I fuck up a lot of the time, and my parents don't like that. You _know_ that!"

Itachi flinched at his cousin's tone.

Shisui continued. "You wouldn't get what it's like to strive, and yet not be able to reach… not be able to be what they want you to be. The stress they put on me – the stress I put on _myself_ is just too much for the disappointment it brings! If I was you, maybe they'd be happy! Maybe I wouldn't get all these goddamn bruises from them and have to blame them on football, and maybe my goddamn girlfriend wouldn't cheat on me because I'm 'not fun enough' or whatever bullshit she said…

"I stopped it for a while, okay? I was happy for a while. But things got bad again, they got real bad for a while. Wrists seemed stupid; people would see. My parents would see, and if they knew, they would… you know what they would do. So I cut on my hips. Simple." His shoulders jerked once. "Your brother would get it. I mean, if you were my brother? My God… I would _hate_ you."

The weight of his words hit hard, like a slap to the face. Itachi inhaled sharply. Shisui tried to ignore it, bitterly spitting out, "Were you just kissing me to find that out?"

"No." said Itachi quickly. "I wouldn't do that."

"Didn't think so." Shisui let out his breath. "But look, if you could-"

He cut himself off as he noticed Itachi had already retrieved his bag from the backseat and his free hand was resting on the door handle. It was dark, but he could have sworn Itachi was trembling.

"I don't think you should be so quick," Itachi murmured, "to assume I wouldn't understand something like that. Shisui. Thank you for the ride."

With the sharp closing of the door, he was gone. _Snap._ Just like that.

Swallowing deeply, Shisui started the car.

_**-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-**_

The image of the spoon bent as Mikoto dipped it into the tea, stirring twice before retrieving the flavoured tea bag that had been floating near to the surface. She set the spoon down on the counter next to the sink (since the dishwasher was already running with the dishes used at dinner), and perched on one of the stools next to the table in the middle of the kitchen with her elbows resting on her knees rather boyishly. Fugaku sat across from her, concentrated on a pile of papers. She reached over to place one of the cups in front of him, and smiled.

"Tea?"

"Oh, thanks," he mumbled, grim eyes glancing up to her for just a second.

"It's green tea, with mint," she explained. "I thought you might like it. Everyone's getting a cold this time of year, and it's pretty good for you."

"Mmhmm."

Mikoto raised the cup to her lips, blowing on it gently before taking a sip. Ripples spread over the surface.

"So," she started, pleasantly. "How was your day at work? Didn't you say you had a meeting or something?"

"Yes, I did," said Fugaku.

"And… how did that go?"

He sighed. "Look, dear, I'm really not in the mood to talk. I have to look through these papers and then get to bed so I can get up early. Alright?"

"You work too much." Mikoto said, her smile vanishing into concern. "Maybe you should take a vacation. Just for a while. We haven't gone away in long time. You know, we haven't really done anything in a long, long time." She put the cup down onto the counter so quickly a small bit of liquid splashed up against the side and dribbled over. "You're always working. I hardly see you anymore, and even when I do, you're…"

Fugaku glared at her, in a demanding sort of way. "I'm what?"

"I don't know."

"I'm _what_, Mikoto?"

She shook her head, hands clinging to the edge of the table. Her voice softened. "Nothing. It's nothing. Forget I said anything. I guess I just… sometimes we don't feel like a family anymore. And I'm worried about the boys. You're too harsh on them, you know."

The papers Fugaku's hands rustled as he flipped through them. "How so?"

"Well you… you aren't even looking at me." Mikoto leaned forwards, peering at her husband. "Are you even listening? Look at me, please."

Fugaku refused. "I don't know what's gotten into you right now, but I suggest you go lay down… Besides, it is not your place to tell me how I should raise my own children."

"What are you talking about? I'm their _Mother_."

"And I am their Father," he growled, "so believe me, Mikoto, if you raised them as you wished they would've turned out as spoiled brats. Every child needs discipline. Right now, I suggest you learn where you stand and stop this ludicrous behaviour."

"If I had…" her voice faded, on the subtly violent edge of breaking as her mouth – painted a soft pink with lipstick – tried to form coherent word a second more before she gave up, gave in. The buzz of electricity coursing through the room seemed loud, and she hated it, along with that pain that had started up in her lungs. She reached absentmindedly for her tea. "You… you know, Fugaku I-"

A soft squeak escaped her throat as her shaking hand shot forwards for the cup handle and missed, clipping it hard enough to make it rock. Liquid sloshed up over the sides as it tipped over onto the counter and spilled, a flood that grew further and further out. The cup hadn't broken.

"Mom? Are you alright?"

Holding her sticky and wet hands out in front of her, almost as if praying, Mikoto looked up to find Itachi at the front door.

"What-"

"I'm okay, Itachi," she said, wondering just how long he had been standing at the door. "I just spilled my tea. The water in the kettle is probably still warm, do you want some?"

"No thank you," he murmured, eyeing her still. "I'll go get a cloth."

"Don't, I'll get it." She smiled. "Your cheeks are all flushed… is it cold outside?"

He half-shrugged in that way he did, and pushed a bit of hair back behind his ear. "Hard practice. That's all."

"I see."

Fugaku didn't speak.

"You go upstairs; don't worry about this," Mikoto said, as if nothing were wrong even though anyone could see something was. Small cracks had expanded and turned into deep gorges and divides. "I'll clean this up. Besides, you look like you need a rest…"

"Goodnight then," said Itachi cordially with a slight nod of his head. Then to Fugaku, "Goodnight, Father."

"You too," Fugaku responded.

Itachi walked up the stairs, trying to control his pace but he could feel it slipping and speeding. By the time he had gotten to his doorway he had stopped caring. Tired, he pushed open to doorway only to find Sasuke lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling. He didn't seem to have noticed his brother was there, his feet and hands flexing gently as he continued off in his thoughts until-

"Sasuke, what are you doing in here?"

Sasuke brother scrambled to sit up, but before he could really do anything, Itachi had spoken again.

"You should probably go."

The younger brother hopped off the bed without question, watching Itachi nervously as he sat down.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't worry about it," Itachi mumbled. He put a hand to his head and ran it through his hair, damp and stringy. "God, I'm such a mess…"

"H-how was football?"

"_Awful_," Itachi spat.

Sasuke recoiled, watching as Itachi began massaging his scalp roughly and muttering rapidly under his breath, words too quick for him to even try to identify as Itachi's voice rambled on and on.

"I should've _known_," was the only thing Sasuke could catch, and he didn't dare to ask what is was Itachi should've known about. His brother's disconcerted face – eyes half-open and wet, teeth biting at his (swollen) lips every now and then, fingers now grabbling mindlessly at his skull – kept him captivated, in a state of horror and awe to see someone like his brother unravel.

_Shisui…_ Itachi groaned mentally, eyes flying open as he pushed everything back inside his head.

"Sasuke."

The boy almost jumped. "Yes?"

"Before you go, if you want it, there's some chocolate in that drawer…" his hand left his head momentarily to point at his dresser. "Third one, right side. I don't want it now, and it's going to go stale soon."

Sasuke headed towards Itachi's dresser slowly, still uncertain, and opened the drawer with slight difficulty – it stuck when he got it half-open and would open no more, but he had enough space to reach his hand in and grab a handful of chocolates.

"Thank you, Nii-san," he said.

"You can have it all if you want." Itachi arched his back a little as he stretched. His body burned in a dull way, as if the sharpness of pain that should have been there was evading him. From the corner of his eye, he caught Sasuke peering at him as he headed for the door. Not hateful. Not hateful at all. (But then, the world as we perceive it is altered by what our minds know, and what our minds want to see…)

Itachi pressed his face into his pillow as soon as he heard the door click shut, a stretching insomnia already unfolding before him.


	5. Apostle

**Deity**

Chapter 4: апócтол

_apostol (a-poh-stohl) – apostle_

Perfection is achieved, not when there is nothing more to add, but when there is nothing left to take away.

-Antoine de Saint-Exupéry_  
_

_**-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-**_

That Friday, Shisui avoided Itachi's eye as the passed by in the hall, making sure to walk on the opposite side with his friends. One of them waved at Itachi, who gave a simple nod back.

That Friday, Itachi noted quietly, Shisui was wearing long sleeves, despite the fierce climax of the Indian Summer.

But it probably meant nothing.

At lunch, Itachi saw Shisui on the front lawn with the same group of friends, a smouldering joint in hand. When none of them were seen for the rest of the afternoon, he knew they had gotten high and run off somewhere, probably in Shisui's car. It wasn't uncommon for someone at the school to do; everyone needed an escape now and then (and some more often than that). Even through the large multi-paned window that lit the staircase, it was obvious Shisui's laughter was fake. His eyes were red-rimmed, fingers jittery as he blew out smoke.

_That is what humans all want – to be closer to perfection. To be closer to God. To reach an enlightened, a pure and blissful state…_

_No drug can give you God._

Itachi looked up through the dirty glass, and all he could see was sky.

_**-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-**_

The house was quiet when Itachi came home Saturday evening from a quick jog, sweat stinging quietly at the sides of his eyes. As usual, Mikoto was in the dining room, setting the table for three.

"Is Dad not coming home from work tonight?"

She shook her head, laying down another fork beside the plate, meticulously, as if it were one of her paintings. (She used to paint a lot, Itachi knew, and she used to be rather good. But not so much any more. Nowadays, she cooked and cleaned, and did who knows what else while the rest of them were away. Nowadays, the arrangement of furniture and the fresh smell of laundry, that was her art.)

"No, Sasuke is at a friend's house for the weekend. It's good for him to see other kids, you know?" She smiled.

(_It's good for him to see other people besides his brother, you know?_

_It's good for him to get away from this house, you know?_)

The corners of Itachi mouth twitched slightly.

"It's that Kiba boy. He's a sweet boy, though a bit brash and mouthy. Inuzuka Kiba… I think you might know his sister. She's Shisui's age, I think… yes, we saw her at a track meet that one year. Do you remember? Itachi?"

It was only when she heard pounding chords of a piano leaking through the walls from the other room that she realized she was talking to herself.

_**-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-**_

The house was quiet that night as well. So quiet that you could hear every little noise, magnified in the void of darkness and quiet to become loud, ear splitting. Itachi's room was covered in a complex labyrinth of shadow and soft light coming in the window, highlighting the edges and faces of some surface while shadow swallowed others completely to create an entirely new landscape.

He could hear himself inhale, feel his lungs expand with it and then shrink again. His half-lidded eyes stared at the ceiling but he saw something else in his mind, though flitting and moving quickly through the images. It was late, but he could not find sleep, and could not _let_ himself find sleep. There were papers scattered across the floor, his neat writing filling every one of them. His thoughts. It did not do him good to keep them all up in his head. Sometimes it got too full, thoughts disorganized and sometimes contradictory or unclear, and he felt as if his he might just explode with it. Tiny curls of brain tissue all over the bedroom, saturated in blood; red puddles all over the floor. Staining the sheets. Dripping from the walls. _Such lovely chaos!_

And _oh_, his Father's face when he discovers it…

And _oh_, how his Mother would weep as she recounted it all to the psychiatrist, whose number Itachi knew she kept in her address book, "just in case".

And _oh_, the disappointment on Sasuke's face as he realized he had no one to protect him anymore. That his big brother had let him down.

It was always Itachi's job to protect his little brother. But sometimes protecting him meant a little bit of sacrifice, or letting him down once in a while.

Itachi himself was not all that sure when it started; the memory was hazy, blurred, and most likely altered by whim of his own mind. _Convenient recollection_, he thought briefly. It was a wonderfully human thing. If a memory did not suit an individual's ideal of life – that is to say if it were a bit too unrealistic or out there or emotionally damaging – their mind might alter it for them subconsciously, for defence or comfort. One would not be aware if it, of course. To them, their memory _was_ the truth.

People are only made out of their memories after all – what they know, and remember, and believe.

Itachi wandered through the pieces of memory he had saved, most involuntarily, wondering how many of them were real. It was possible none of them were, though he doubted it. Some of his memories were so macabre compared to the rest; he wondered how they could have been altered into such a state. Was he just morbid – a sadist? Or were they only a censored version of something worse…

Glancing at the clock, he discovered an hour had passed him by. This was not surprising. It was rather often Itachi had trouble sleeping. His mind just could not calm itself down. But he tried, closing his eyes tiredly and sweeping all thoughts from his skull as he drew in quiet, shifting a little to the left to be more comfortable. Eyes closed tight…

It came then, as he knew it would; those memories mixed with nightmarish additions of his own, vivid on his eyelids. There were whimpers, tears rolling down pale cheeks and a throat too sore to protest. A hand in dark dark hair, fingers knotting, and the slightly curving length of the slender neck as the head was jerked upwards. Movements like a rag doll. Helpless.

Tiny rivulets of blood down his shoulder, wetting the fabric. Making such a mess.

"…_slipped and fell into the piano…"_

The more times Itachi went over the memory, the more certain parts of the faces blurred and distorted, until he wasn't quite sure who they were anymore.

If it was himself, or Sasuke.

Or if it had even happened at all.

Both elated and frightened by the thought, Itachi tried to lull himself into sleep with a blank mind.

_**-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-**_

Two weeks and four days had passed since that Friday, and only then did Shisui manage to gather enough of himself to confront Itachi with. They sat on the stairs; Itachi perched on the sill of the large window while Shisui took the nearest step. Hardly anyone ever used that staircase, they knew, especially not now that the weather had turned cold again and chilled the area near the window. The Indian summer had passed them by all too quickly, and one morning Itachi woke to find his toes frozen, all the warmth gone (Mikoto had been lucky, though, and managed to get all her plants inside in time).

"I'm sorry," was the first thing Shisui had said then.

"It's fine," Itachi replied quietly.

"Don't lie to me. It's not fine at all." Shisui muttered. "Don't play stupid."

Somewhere down the road, a car alarm went off. Itachi leaned against the glass, all too trusting in its support of him as his eyes scanned the street outside. Where there had before been brightly coloured leaves scattered about the tree tops there were now only naked branches reaching for the sky, the entire world discoloured. Soon, he thought, soon it's going to start snowing…

"Come over this Friday," Shisui was saying then. "I could use some company."

After Itachi's silence, he added, "Please. My parents are out. I just don't want to be on my own then… I'm not doing too well lately. You know."

Itachi knew.

"Alright," he agreed though he had his doubts, stealing a look at Shisui. The boy was grinning sullenly at his beaten-up running shoes, hands clenching his knees in a desperate sort of frustration. Struggling. Itachi wanted to keep watching, fascinated by such behaviour (so _human_) on a level he knew he really should not be, but averted his eyes as Shisui looked up.

"How'd you do on your report card?" he asked finally, and Itachi shrugged.

"Good."

"Oh come on."

Itachi pressed his forehead to the cold glass and stared at his transparent reflection. "Alright, I did great. Do you believe me now?"

"You amaze me, Itachi…."

The Uchiha winced. It wasn't that simple, but he chose not to say, picking up his bag and accompanying Shisui back to the crowded and blissfully loud cafeteria.

Shisui drove Itachi and Sasuke home from school that night, for the first time in those two weeks and four days; though it was only a short time, it had felt unbelievably long. Sasuke didn't ask why it was like that. He knew very well by then that people, even the ones who cared about each other, fought sometimes.

But even so, the times when people didn't fight – the times when they barely talked, save a few icy words and forced dialogue that had a bitterness all its own as they slowly drifted apart and to a certain point of away after which it was difficult to come back – could be even scarier when the times when they fought.

Sasuke knew that, too, remembering the days when Itachi would seem distant and intangible (a phantom, a dream, a myth he could only believe in), locking himself in his room and always declining should Sasuke ask to come in. Each time he slipped off, it took a little longer to bring him back, (and Dad would get a little angrier, and Mom would spend another night out with her friends, and there would be another thin layer of dust on the piano when he touched it, and there would be another bruise…). Sasuke hated it, refused to believe it, and always felt that somehow it was his fault anyways. Sitting there in the backseat of Shisui's car, listening to the two in the front talking about a certain teacher they both disliked with the radio turned up just loud enough to keep the silence away, Sasuke almost felt sick with it.

Maybe that's all it was, he thought. Maybe Itachi was just sick.

Everyone gets sick sometimes.

"Goddamn," said Shisui, slowing the car and peering out the window. "It's snowing already…"


	6. Blood

**Deity**

Chapter 5: кровь

_кровь - krov (kroh-v) – blood_

"Death is the mother of beauty," said Henry.

"And what is beauty?"

"Terror."

- from _The Secret History_, by Donna Tartt

_**-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-**_

_His blood was rushing through his body, all flesh and skin and bone…_

Itachi found himself a little short of breath, chest falling and rising in _allegro_ as his breath loudly scraped its way out of him. It felt like his muscles had been slit open and glowing embers were stuffed inside, burning softly at his skin from the inside out. He could not remember how long he had been running for, only that it didn't feel like long enough despite the cool saltiness of sweat running down his forehead and into his eyes. His vision wavered; in focus, out of focus, in focus again.

He _should_ have been in school that morning, as opposed to (Itachi looked around, unsure of his surroundings for a moment before recognizing the street name; Balsam, how pleasant) jogging through the town somewhat aimlessly. He _should_ have, but he wasn't.

And it felt good in a way he had only half expected.

Truth be told, Itachi had only ever missed classes before because of various sports and funerals for relatives he never really knew, giving him nearly perfect attendance (though he still could have aced his classes easily, even if he only bothered to show up half the time). The thought of skipping had occurred to him, however, he had never taken it seriously as something he might do before.

Today was an exception. Today, on a Thursday morning at 7:00 am exactly, he had woken up with no desire to move at all. No desire to do _anything_. The strict routine his life that had run on for God knows how long was beginning to wear him down. To put it simply, he was bored to the point of exhaustion. He no longer wanted the things that he had. He had known such feelings before, but never a wanting this strong to escape it. If only for one day…

So he did. After going to his locker and dropping off his bag, he just left and started jogging. Anywhere. He could go anywhere that he wanted! For just one day, he didn't have to be a straight-A student, or a pro-star athlete, or the perfect son, or anything at all. He was just Itachi.

(And this was freedom – not slaving over things he barely cared for just to try and attain some sort of higher status – no, this was somewhere better than that could ever bring him, and this was sweet death and pain in a weaker sense, and he wanted to taste _more_ of it.

This tasted _alive_.)

Running a hand through his sweat-beaded bangs, Itachi headed a little further down the vacant street. It was in a small, slightly run-down part of the town that he had not been to for the past while – not since he and Sasuke had ridden their bikes to the park at the end of the street a several years earlier. Since then, the town had ordered part of the playground there removed because they deemed it a "safety hazard" and never bothered to put another one back up, leaving nothing but a lone, rusted swing set. Letting his legs give way from beneath him, Itachi fell back onto the swing. The chain whined as he pushed off the frozen ground below with his feet, a rut dug into the earth from years upon years of usage.

_Sasuke_…

Itachi exhaled, clouds of warmth breath brushing against his face. It was almost December, after all, and earlier that week a light dusting of snow had appeared over the town before disappearing again overnight though the cold had remained.

Closing his eyes, Itachi remembered how a younger Sasuke had practically begged his brother to bring him to the park and push him on the swings, all eager smiles as Itachi hesitantly accepted (but only for a little bit, he had things he needed to do. He had only ever taken Sasuke there once, he recalled…). He remembered the way his hands felt against Sasuke's back, pushing him higher (and higher still). Laughter, sticky drops of ice cream, pale skin in the grass (a blooming splotch of purple that looked so beautiful and _swollen_, causing Sasuke to wince as Itachi's hands…).

Itachi opened his eyes quickly, dismissing the images as his body began to move with the swing's motion, the movements of his legs pushing him higher (and a little higher still). Sasuke had always been an essential part of him, his presence bringing different sorts of comfort (among other emotions entirely) that Itachi found nowhere else. Sasuke was one of the only people who didn't just see him as Itachi the 'genius', but as Itachi his big brother, who was human and had his quirks (often called imperfections), his darker moments. And his brother didn't think less of him for them. Sasuke, it seemed, would always place a large amount of trust (deserved or not) in Itachi.

_It was just too bad…_

_("Nii-san, please…?")_

So it was only fitting, after all, that Itachi would try to provide as much protection and guidance to Sasuke as he could, though his Father often reprimanded him for it. _"That boy holds you back from reaching what you really could… your true potential…"_

"Potential" was one of those words Fugaku liked to throw around as he pleased, not quite carelessly but still more than often. However, he meant them in different ways than they came out, (_"As I would have expected of my son…."_), and there were many others just like them, disguised quite carefully. A hand on a shoulder; a flash of the eyes; a snapping, stinging cold…

"Not now," Itachi muttered, trying to push the thoughts from his head. "Just one day, please, one day without worrying about it all…"

Even as he walked away, the swing continued rocking back and forth for a while more until it finally slowed to a stop and the sounds of the wailing chain slipped into a hush in the empty playground.

_**-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-**_

Sasuke knocked on the door three times, each a little louder than the next (sweet _crescendo_). It took about 30 seconds for the door to open, and Itachi peered out at him wearily. It was Thursday evening, and there was a look in his eye that portrayed some sort of amazement, some sort of awe that glimmered in the soft lamplight that created a halo around his silhouette.

"Yes?" he near whispered. He had been quiet all day, Sasuke mused, especially while Shisui had driven them home. Not in the shy sort of way though; a quiet in which the words just couldn't mean enough.

"Nii-san?" Sasuke asked quietly. "Um, I was wondering if you… if you were doing anything tomorrow after school and wanted to play soccer with me or something. I mean, I know it's a long time before soccer starts again and everything, but I–"

He was cut off as Itachi shook his head, fluid movement. "I'm sorry, Sasuke. I can't."

"O-oh."

"I'm going to Shisui's tomorrow night," Itachi told him. "But maybe the day after that. Alright?"

"Okay…"

He felt Itachi poke his forehead gently with an apologetic smile, and then the door closed, leaving but a single sliver of light slipping out from under the door to warm Sasuke's feet with false light.

_**-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-**_

Friday night.

The table was set for two.

Sasuke was somewhat surprised when Fugaku told him he could sit in Itachi's usual seat, his fingers wrapped tightly around the thin stem of his wine glass. Mikoto had told her husband she would be out at for dinner and a movie with some girlfriends that night, and Itachi had left for Shisui's a little earlier, so it was just the two of them.

The house was quiet then, in one of those not-good ways. Sasuke was almost afraid to move, careful as he cut his chicken into smaller pieces before putting them into his mouth, making sure there was no sauce dribbling down his face or spilling onto his shirt as he chewed the tough and tasteless meat.

He could feel his Father's eyes on him.

"How was school today, Sasuke?"

"Good." The chicken was dry in his throat as he swallowed. His hands shook a little, but he stilled them.

It was quiet…

_**-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-**_

Friday night.

When Itachi reached Shisui's house, all beige siding and large garage doors – just like the one next to it but a little different – he knew that Shisui would already be waiting for him in the kitchen. He had probably been there for fifteen minutes or so too. Yes, Shisui was probably looking at the clock on the stove as he sat on one of the stools his mother had upholstered herself, only a few steps away from the front door. He had probably opened the liquor cabinet twice, both times pausing and putting the bottles back as he heard a car drive down the road, although he knew when his parents said "Might be back around ten", they meant much later.

Probably, Itachi thought to himself.

Itachi knocked three times, the door opening before he could get in a fourth. Shisui greeted him with a warm (and worn) smile, hurriedly closing the door and taking his cousin's coat, though they were careful not to touch in the process.

"Did you walk all the way here?" he asked, fishing through the closet for a hanger.

Itachi nodded. "It's not far."

"But it's winter."

"I've survived worse," Itachi said quietly. "Isn't there a party you would rather be at right now?"

Shisui paused. "Well, there is one, but I don't really want to be there… You know how they can get. Heh."

Itachi nodded, and brushed a bit of snow off the soft, black scarf he had unwrapped from about his neck, though most of it had already melted.

The evening went on as it usually did; Shisui ordered a few slices of pizza – pepperoni and bacon for him, and plain cheese with tomato for Itachi – chatting amiably about various things until Itachi suggested they put on the movie he had rented. It was rather good, Shisui supposed, and he would have enjoyed it if they were watching at a different time, or a different place than his living room with Itachi sitting just a few short inches away from him, dark eyes on the screen but his mind obviously elsewhere.

They had just passed the one-hour mark in the film when Shisui stood up abruptly and walked over to the DVD player to shut it off. The screen quickly went blank, and the room was filled with darkness for a few seconds before Shisui's fingers found the light-switch.

Itachi did not move, but when the lights came back on he was staring at Shisui in such a way that his cousin knew he wouldn't be able to meet the gaze if his life depended on it.

"I can't stand it…," Shisui muttered after a while, continuing to glare at the carpet. His hair had all fallen down into his face, but his taut shoulders and uneven breath gave away whatever expression he was trying to hide. "I don't know how you can…"

"Can't stand what?" Itachi asked him quietly.

Though the movements were slow and unsteady, one of Shisui's hands rose towards his head and embedded itself in his hair. A portrait of frustration in blunt brushstrokes. His fingernails bit into his scalp (just a little pain…), teeth gritted and breaths coming shorter despite his attempts to keep it in equal intervals. It wasn't working.

Again, but this time a little louder, Itachi inquired as to what Shisui had meant. He had a good idea, of course, but it just wasn't safe to assume such things. And eventually – neither knew how long; it could've been anywhere from three minutes to twenty – Shisui raised his head and exhaled.

"I think," he said to Itachi, "that maybe you should go now."

"Shisui…" Itachi tried, though Shisui did not seem to be listening as he walked right on past Itachi and on into the hall, gait hurried and almost frantic. He kept on walking until he reached the door of his bedroom, the only one on the first floor of their house that seemed far too large for just three people. It was then he felt Itachi's hand on his shoulder, like an electrical shock that caused him to stop where he was, mere inches from reaching the doorknob. He was not sure whether Itachi pulled him around or he moved of his own will, but they were suddenly face to face with each other.

"Let go of me," murmured Shisui, doing his best not to look at Itachi. But the younger refused to listen, staring at Shisui with more intensity than before in his dark eyes. There was a space between them, spreading wide (and begging to be filled desperately, pleading and screaming for some kind of solace, for peace. Screaming to be made into something _more_). Itachi could see one of the arteries in Shisui's neck pulsating rapidly, the tense muscles, the way Shisui's lips opened just a little (indecision), the way Shisui's glow(er)ing eyes suggested a repressed fear (and want)… He brushed his thumb up against the base of Shisui's neck, causing his cousin to jerk backwards a little into the wall.

"I'm not going to leave you when you're like this," Itachi told him.

"What are you, my personal saviour? I don't need help from you…."

Shisui spat the words out bitterly, and Itachi's thumb pressed a little into his throat (into that organized tangle of flesh, veins, blood coursing through and through and through) before releasing. His hand withdrew, perhaps reluctant, but even he wasn't sure. His fingertips were still tingling, fantastically warm (_alive!_). Shadows played on the flowered patterns of the wallpaper, the catching of light causing the slight sheen of sweat on Shisui's neck to glisten, each strand of chestnut hair a slightly different tint; some red, some black. It was a work of art, a painting he created with each movement…

Itachi exhaled.

"I'm not offering to help," he said. "I'm offering to stay."

"I don't want you to stay."

"Don't lie." Itachi cocked his eyebrows, and space between them seemed so very small just then.

Shisui turned, grasping the doorknob and twisting until the door came open.

"Fine then," he muttered. "Do what you want."

With that he turned to head through the doorway (was that hesitance?), and Itachi followed him into the overly clean bedroom, much like Itachi's own (all trophies and photos and organization). It was a place that felt familiar.

Shisui allowed himself to collapse limply in bed, eyes closing halfway as his head hit the pillow. His body wanted to give in to the urge to sleep, but his mind was too aware to let him.

Itachi stayed his distance like a stranger, as if he hadn't been in the room countless times before. There was something troubling about it all, and yet he only indulged in it_ (breathe in, out, in…)_. What it was he couldn't name, but he knew he had witnessed parts of it before, and once he had that little bit of recognized he found himself yearning for a more. The thickness of it, the frantic stillness; as if they were waiting for something big to happen, something devastating, something so much bigger than them they could barely understand. Something more than human, unknown, and still so glorious. Itachi wondered if Shisui, lying quiet on the bed, could feel it too. Perhaps, he thought. After all, Shisui seemed to find a sort of attraction in death, be it the same or a different kind than Itachi's.

But perhaps not.

As seconds passed them by in silence, Itachi could feel it more than ever…

_**-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-**_

_He remembered the feel of cool tree bark against his skin, and how it had scratched his palms as he hoisted himself up onto a higher branch. It was finally summer vacation, so there was no school and no obligations save his sports practices and piano, but the rest of his day was free to with as he wished. He wrapped his arm around the tree's trunk to steady himself, glad for the canopy of leaves above him that cast down a haze of shadow to rescue him from the glaring sun. He was eleven, and already the air seemed to smell so much better in summer…_

"_Nii-san! Nii-san, where did you go?"_

_Itachi smiled, swinging his legs in mid-air as he peered over his knees to the ground several metres below him._

"_I'm up here, Sasuke," he called, the sound of his voice mixing with the rustling of leaves as a wind swept through. He watched as his brother finally caught sight of him, eyes alight in amazement of how high Itachi had climbed. Itachi didn't find it that high, but then again Sasuke was quite a bit smaller than he was. Or was he? He realized he couldn't quite recall, strangely, and made a mental note to spend more time with his brother that summer. It seemed during the school year that Itachi had hardly spent time with him at all, having been so caught up in other things…_

_Sasuke's small hands made clumsy grasps as he pulled himself up to the lowest branch. The park was quiet that day (a Thursday, wasn't it?), with less people than there were usually. Their bikes were chained to a tree near the swing set, as Sasuke had insisted on going there first._

_Itachi remembered the way dirt had been buried beneath the tips of Sasuke fingernails as his hand finally reached the branch Itachi sat upon. His fingers had groped at it, trying to find a good grip, but then – and oh, how he remembered this – just as the boy attempted to pull himself up a little higher, his feet had slipped out from under him. His eyes stretched wide, framed by a disarray of sooty lashes that should've belonged to a girl, and his lips parted as if to scream, though the sound never came, and then he could feel himself in mid-air without anything supporting him. Freefall…_

_It was as if, for a second, Itachi forgot himself. His heart stopped beating, his lungs stopped breathing, and he stopped feeling altogether as his body moved on his own. One of those moments so commonly called 'miracles'._

_It was terror and it was beauty, all packaged into one glorious moment._

"_Gotcha."_

_He was barely balancing, one arm wrapped around the tree trunk so tightly he could feel it pressing patterns into his flesh, while his other found itself hanging down to clutch Sasuke's left wrist, slender and small. The younger was whimpering, panting, eyes averted to the ground as he dangled. His shirtsleeve had fallen down to bunch about his shoulder, revealing on his upper arm a patch of pale flesh mottled with soft hues of purple, yellow and green; bruises blooming like the crocuses that were always first to sprout up in their mother's garden each spring._

"_Sasuke…"_

_Itachi's eyes held the injury for a second before the strain of Sasuke's weight almost caused him to slip and have them both fall, his own shoulder inwardly ablaze with a pain he barely noticed in his… was it shock? He wasn't sure. But even after Sasuke had managed to climb onto a lower branch, trembling as he pushed his sleeve back down, Itachi couldn't get what he had seen out of his mind._

_He knew what it was, and he knew how it got there._

"_Sasuke, do you want to stay here all afternoon with me?"_

_(Let's not go back there just yet…)_

_After they finally rode home a few hours later, Mikoto found the rip in the back of Sasuke's shirt from where, Itachi guessed, it had caught the end of a branch when he fell. It wasn't a big rip and it could easily be repaired: "Clothes can be mended, but you can't. Be a little more careful, please…," she said upon finding a small scrape on his back to match. And Itachi remembers the way she smiled then in a concerned way that was just so fittingly "motherly" as she inquired as to how it happen. He remembered how his voice had caught in his throat before he spoke, and how Sasuke tried to stare at the ground like he couldn't hear a thing…_

"…_tell Dad it was my fault. Not his."_

**_-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-_**

"You just don't get it…"

"I think you've merely become so attached to the idea that you refuse to accept otherwise."

"No, it's… you're not listening to me. You don't know what it's like to _not_ be the best. I don't have that. All they see in me is failure."

"The best isn't always good enough, Shisui…"

(My best isn't perfect.)

"What are you talking about?"

"It doesn't matter. Look-"

"No, tell me."

"_Shisui._"

"At least you have ways out, Itachi. You could do anything you wanted and you know it. I… it feels like I've been backed into a corner, and I can't do _anything_ about it."

"I'm sure there-"

"Everyday I have to wake up and try and live the life my parents want me to, but everyday I just fall further from the mark! They consider me a _failure_ of a son! Worse than that, I've become a lie to everyone I know. Can you imagine what it's like to hate yourself, to hate who you are and who you know you're going to end up as, but to be unable to change it? I _can't_. They've beaten the will out of me. It's hard to even think about grades, or football, or anything anymore… I just want to get away from it… Is that so much to ask?

"I just want to live my own life."

(Live is one letter too close to lie.)

"I… Like I said, Shisui, I understand you more than you think."

"…Sasuke…."

"…mmhmm."

"I'm sorry. You know, when I said–"

"I know."

"No, really. He's lucky to have you. You two seem to be so close…"

(You're wrong. Or perhaps I'm wrong. I can make mistakes, right?)

"Shisui, would you mind if we didn't talk about this anymore?"

"You know, sometimes you're easier to read than you think, Itachi."

(I am only _human_, after all.)

**_-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-_**

_Their parting kiss was not a short one and not a casual one in the least. Lips passed over lips, dragging the touch as if to reaffirm that it was in fact real and not some figment as hands clutched shoulders tighter than they realized. Eyelids fluttering, catching stolen-breathed glances here and there as deeper they delved; Shisui's mouth tasted vaguely of alcohol, bitter and dry in the same way it made you want a little more, and a little more…_

_At some points, it was messy and unsure. It was a human gesture, after all, and the situation wasn't really that idealistic or romantic, though it was beautiful nonetheless._

_Oh yes, it certainly was beautiful, though it wasn't at all "love"._

_Shisui's chapped lips pressed roughly against Itachi's jawbone, watching his cousin's distracted eyes as their heartbeats pounded strongly. Together._

"_You're thinking about him, aren't you? About how you should be getting home, to protect him."_

When Itachi arrived back at his own house, all the lights in the house were off, leaving the windows black and empty as they stared out at the street. It was no wonder though, seeing as he knew it was nearly eleven o' clock already. Thankfully, the frothy snowfall had stopped, but this left the streets with a deathly quiet and sense of alone that made his racing heartbeat feel all too loud, not too mention a biting cold that made it difficult to breathe, let alone think properly. His mind was half-asleep but reeling.

_Glorious… The sensation of it was just _glorious

He made his way up the stairs deftly and silently, his hand resting lightly on the banister as if to steady his body that felt so far away from him then. Once at the top, he paused, looking around wearily as if searching and blinking more than a chronic liar.

The door to Sasuke's bedroom was slightly ajar.

_They were feeding off each other's sensation at that point, inching and inching towards wonderful words like "feel" and "bliss", "happiness" and "life". But just words can never do them justice._

"_It's not me you want. It was never me, was it?"_

"_Shisui, that's not what-"_

"_Don't lie; I've had enough of those to last me an entire lifetime."_

"_I'm not…"_

Itachi had made it halfway to Sasuke's bed when he saw the boy stir. A variation of shadow and dark hair fell across his face as he angled his head slightly, eyes puffy from sleep and squinting through the darkness. Though he could feel his throat tightening in fear, Sasuke opened his mouth and tried to speak. He had just begun a whisper when a car passing by outside illuminated his room long enough for him to catch a blurred glimpse of a figure, its peculiar expression causing him to start.

However, when Sasuke's eyes finally managed to focus in the dark, he found his room was vacant, and all the shadows still in place. Assuming it was just the tail end of a dream passing over his eyes, Sasuke forced himself back to sleep.


	7. To Taste

**Deity**

Chapter 6: пробовать

_пробовать - probovat (proh-boh-vyah-ts) – to taste_

Notes: When Mikoto says "It's minus ten!", she's talking about -10 degrees** Celsius**. (Silly Americans and your Fahrenheit…) Reviews are greatly appreciated.

_A wounded dear leaps highest,  
I've heard the hunter tell;  
T is but the ecstasy of death  
And then the break is still._

- Emily Dickinson

_**-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-**_

There were dirty dishes piled on the counter beside the dishwasher, covered with sticky-sweet puddles of maple syrup and breadcrumbs. It was a Saturday morning, with sunlight bursting in through the window over the sink to tinge the entire room yellow and glint sharply off the stainless steel tap as Mikoto scrubbed at the counter. She was telling Sasuke about the movie she had seen the night before with her friends, laughing and smiling at all the right parts and some of the wrong ones too. He hadn't seen her looking so happy in a long while.

"Ah, it looks so lovely out today," she said, sighing wistfully. "It's just too bad it's actually so cold. It's minus ten, can you believe it!"

And she laughed, pitches ringing like the sound of bells only much more raw.

"Do you need any help with the dishes, Mom?" said Sasuke.

"Oh no, Sasuke, it's fine," Mikoto said in return. "You've got much better things to spend your Saturday on than cleaning the kitchen with me, right?"

And then, just like every other Saturday morning, the sounds of rapid scale runs played on a piano began from the living room. Itachi, hair still wet and hanging down in long damp strings from his shower, had his eyes closed as he ran through the exercises. His fingers knew the keys well enough, by that point, that he did not need them open to play. Both hands were going then, playing scale after scale in movements like clockwork, sometimes going up four or five octaves or running through formula patterns.

"Itachi."

He heard his Father's voice, but his hands only slowed down a little. A major.

"What time did you get in last night?" Fugaku asked, leaning against the side of the piano.

"Eleven or so."

F sharp minor, Melodic.

"I see. So, what did you two do?"

"Watched a movie. Had dinner. The usual," Itachi responded, his voice almost drowning within the swiftly climbing tones that fell swiftly like daggers through the air between them, stiff and anxious as if each atom were loaded with extra electrons (all that negative charge). Itachi knew how long it had been since genuine words had come from his Father's grimly set mouth – he knew it down to days, even hours – but he told himself no longer missed it, no longer yearned for that approval that filled him right up with satisfaction. Did his Father feel it too? The staleness, a bitter aftertaste impossible to wash down…

Itachi's fingers played a cadence at the end of the scale and let the notes tremble on until the sound stopped ringing out. Faded.

"I'm done some of my university applications," he said quietly.

"Oh?" At this, Fugaku perked up a little. "Have you… decided on what you plan to study?"

Itachi nodded, shaking a few more droplets of cold shower-water from his hair and onto his lap.

"Yes. Medicine. I think… I'll be a doctor."

(Doctor (noun) - 1. A person licensed to practice medicine; physician, dentist or veterinarian. 2. A person who has been awarded a doctor's degree. 3. See 'Doctor of the Church'. 4. A practitioner of folk medicine or folk magic. 6. A rig or device contrived for remedying an emergency situation or for doing a special task. 7. Any of several brightly coloured artificial flies used in fly fishing.)

Fugaku gave a smile that portrayed approval quite well, leaning his weight forwards as to put him within reach of Itachi's shoulder. The dark-haired man clamped a hand firmly on his son's shoulder, and Itachi averted his eyes, though in his peripheral vision he could still see Fugaku's clean fingernails and olive-skinned knuckles. After the smooth hands of his Mother, the chapped and begging lips of Shisui, and the gentle, forgiving warmth of Sasuke, it was a little surprising just how _cold_ his father felt…

"A good decision," Fugaku said proudly. "I know you'll do well, Itachi; you've just got so much potential."

(Doctor – a person who makes a living out of stealing from Death; playing with it. It's a game everyone will lose, eventually. Only _God_ can defy death.)

Fugaku gave his son a little bit of a squeeze, fingers pressing into flesh before he released.

"Aren't you going to work today?" Itachi asked.

"I've got the day off," Fugaku announced without looking back, making his way out of the room.

"You haven't taken one of those in a while…" Itachi muttered under his breath, bringing his hands from where they had hidden in his lap and placed them back on the keys. Looking up a little, he could see a small layer of silvery dust forming on the top of the piano.

F sharp minor, Harmonic.

_**-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-**_

Sasuke was still in the kitchen when the doorbell rang, splitting through the thoughts he had been content to sit and sift through up until that point. He still felt a little sore from sleep, as if his body were still resisting his mind's command to wake up.

"I'll get it!" Mikoto called, sauntering through the hall and towards the front door. Her feet were bare despite the chill she had pointed out earlier, her body adorned with a pink fleece shirt and a loose black skirt that swung back and forth about her knees with her lively walk. As he watched her quickly smooth her hair, which had been left down and looked only half-combed that particular morning, Sasuke couldn't help but smile.

Pushing her lips into a pleasant sort of expression (the kind you see in magazines; the kind you know took a lot of practice to master), Mikoto swung the door open.

"Hello! Ah… Sachiro." The brightness in her eyes faded a little as she recognized their visitor, leaning outwards so that Sasuke could no longer see her from the shoulders up. "Sachiro, what's wrong? Are you okay? My God… come in, alright?"

From the kitchen, Sasuke watched as his mother ushered a woman slightly smaller than herself inside, an arm wrapped around tense shoulders. He recognized her instantly. She was his aunt, his father's older sister, and Shisui's mother. She was a hard-working and stubborn woman, one who had all-out refused to take her husband's last name (eventually, he gave in and took her name, Uchiha, as his own). Sasuke had seen her many a time before, on holidays and birthdays and other such events, but he had never seen her like _this_.

"Come on," Mikoto said, her voice having reverted to a soft and maternal one as she helped the distraught woman past the doorway to the kitchen and on into the living room. "Just sit down, now, alright? I'll make you some tea."

There were long, wet streaks running down the woman's thin face, her dark eyelashes glistening with the tears caught in them. Beneath her eyes were dark smudges from where her make-up had dripped down, some going over those lovely high cheekbones Shisui had inherited. Her hair, cut short and curled about her head, had become messy and tangled from the wind outside, and the usually serious and fine-set features of her face were distorted in pain. Through the walls, Sasuke could hear her sobbing, gasping for breath.

"Mi-Mikoto…" she said weakly as her sister-in-law turned away, reaching out a hand suddenly to catch the lacy hem of Mikoto's skirt. "Please… P-please, just-"

"What's going on?"

Both women looked up to see Fugaku enter the room, the noise having reached him all the way in his study. The expression of annoyance he wore quickly morphed into confusion. All the electricity that had been building and building up in the air of the room seemed to snap all of a sudden, frenzying a moment before it was all gone, and even from the kitchen where he was listening, Sasuke could feel the emptiness of it.

"What…?"

"He's dead," Sachiro whispered then, her voice cracking as the words came out. "Shisui… is dead."

The sunlight in the window seemed dull and cold (fake), before glaring brightly once more in Sasuke's eyes. Had he heard right? There was no way to rewind the moment and tell. There came a few mumbled words from the living room, intentionally obscured in the adult type of whispers that always felt guilty. He could find sense in none of it, and then:

"They think it was a-a _suicide_."

Murmured, uttered like a curse from a mother's lips, her mouth feeling tainted with just the sound of it released from her mouth (and oh, the bitter aftertastes…). Sasuke knew that word, though he wasn't quite sure it was he had learned it first.

"My husband, he… he dr-dropped me off here be-before… going down to…" Sachiro's susurrations began to fade and crumble, the remnants covered by the creaking of furniture and Mikoto's footsteps over their flowered carpet. A few seconds past, Sasuke saw her face (gleaming, worried) pop in the doorway.

"Boys…" she said quietly. "Could you go upstairs for a little while? Please?"

"Of course."

It was only then, with the cold touch of a hand to his shoulder and those two quick words, that Sasuke noticed Itachi's presence behind him, causing a jolt of fright to slide through his body. It pushed up the delicate hairs on the back of his neck from beneath the skin, the stir much greater than Sasuke would have expected from himself.

"Mikoto, don't you think Itachi should stay?" came Fugaku's stern voice then, and Mikoto gave her children an apologetic smile despite it.

"Please… just go for now…"

_**-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-**_

_The funeral was the following Thursday, taking place in the afternoon. This was a bad time of year for funerals, the gravediggers could be heard saying to each other, shaking their heads while they warmed their fingers with the small flames of their lighters. The ground was too hard, and the winds were harsh, but Shisui's parents insisted on being there when their son was buried. The stared down into the grave as the coffin, made of a beautiful light-coloured wood, was lowered down into earth. Ashes to ashes, and all that jazz._

_Their uncomfortably dry eyes matched their suits just perfectly, and Itachi wondered if he was the only one who saw shredded pieces of disappointment resonating from them._

The church pews were cold and hard against Sasuke's back, and a few times, he had to stop himself from giving an audible shiver as he became unable to get rid of the chill that had settled over him. Then, when they all stood to sing with their open hymnbooks in hand, Sasuke found his mouth moving along to the sound, but the words refused to come out. He just couldn't convince his throat to elicit any sort of sound, and his eyes soon became fixated on the coffin (a closed one, thankfully).

It wasn't just a coffin, though. Inside of it was Shisui, or at least the body of the person formerly known as Shisui. And it was the same Shisui who had bought Sasuke ice cream on hot days, and who had made Itachi laugh, and who had sung along to the radio too loudly, smiling, as if to try and prove himself louder than all the other sounds in the world combined. The Shisui who, as hard as it was for Sasuke to grasp even then, wasn't coming back. That was the meaning of being dead, after all. Being without life. Of course, some people could be dead inside even though their bodies were still alive and moving, Itachi had told him once when speaking in reference to a book.

And that is the worst kind of death of all.

It was hard to imagine things without Shisui. And in a way, it was hard to imagine Itachi without Shisui. But he wouldn't have to _imagine_ it, Sasuke realized, because it would be that way no matter what he did, and it was going to take some getting used to, that was for sure.

_Without_ Shisui. The concept still felt foreign, and the hurt that came along with it was strange and constant, aching, a whole avalanche of emotions raging against him all at once. Everything was mixed and blurred during that time, days bleeding into each other as if they were the same and his body feeling suddenly heavy, his voice weak and his heart… well, his heart didn't know.

Dead, and gone, and lifeless, and never-coming-back; all those unfair words.

Everyone closed their hymnbooks, snapping in the silence as they sat down, and the hollow cold was muffles when Sasuke felt Itachi's naked hand slide gently to rest on his lower arm. Tugging gently – asking permission, and daring – it seemed to draw him in a bit closer to his brother's body until Sasuke could feel his temple resting against Itachi's jutting collarbone, lying jusr beneath the soft black of his dress-shirt (everything was black those days, black or white or a dirty undertone somewhere between, he remembered later. You were lucky to find any colour at all). The press of their bodies drew out the small bits of warmth they still had and savoured them. Sasuke let himself close his eyes, feeling Itachi's marble-like cheek against his crown, hand squeezing Sasuke's arm (reassurance, and a sense of _real_): flesh to flesh.

Sasuke remembered vaguely the way Itachi's lips remained still while everyone around him sang, and had thought to himself, "I've got to be strong for Nii-san now, I have to…"

After the service, Shisui's parents went to the graveyard to watch the coffin be put into the ground. There were many people there – people Shisui had known from school and those he hadn't, teachers, relatives, friends of the family – but it was only Fugaku and Itachi who went along with them.

_The wind whipped around them, staining their faces in shades of raw (fleshy) pink against sharp ice whites, hands shoved in their pockets for warmth. Cold, the cold was seeping in from all directions no matter how tightly they pulled their coats and scarves around themselves, their bodies. There were times, peering through the thick veil of snow that had descended in a bitter sweep, that Itachi's sore eyes nearly saw something, darting in and out. A shadow, was it?_

_He pressed his lips together, noticing with displeasure they were becoming chapped._

_Winter is the temporary death of the world. Just a small taste of it before spring, and everything is reborn so bright and giddy. Without death there would be no life, and without life, no death either. Everything has a balance._

_This was just a taste._

Following the funeral, coffee and tea were served, with hot chocolate for the children. Itachi had none. He had remained silent through the entire ceremony and even when he returned from the graveyard with Fugaku, he only spoke a short greeting to Sasuke and Mikoto before settling into another bout of raw quiet. People stayed for a while, but slowly they began to leave, piling on the apologetic smiles and condolences until they hardly meant anything to here. Sasuke watched them, but somehow felt like he wasn't there anymore. He still couldn't get the idea through his head.

And then, in the stuffy and distant elegance of the funeral parlour where everyone gathered afterwards, there was only Shisui's parents and Sasuke's, respective grandparents having just left, and Itachi standing by the window. The vent shooting warm air upwards caused the lacy curtains to stir, the windows behind them showing only the snow-covered parking lot. The silence was no longer just Itachi's; it had drawn all of them in, pressing against their skulls in soft torment. Teasing.

"It was you."

Sachiro, hunched over in her chair, glared at Itachi. He didn't respond, and Sasuke found this didn't surprise him.

"_You_ were the one," Sachiro hissed, uncaring of the cautioning hand her husband had placed on her shoulder. "_You_ were there before he did it."

"I was." Itachi responded simply, but this only angered her further.

"It was your fault! You drove him to it, didn't you! He was close to getting what he wanted, but _you_ had to step in and ruin it for him!" She spat the words like acid. "Did you convince him to do it? Is that what you wanted? You were already the best, so why did you have to get rid of your competition, huh? Tell me!"

At this point, Sachiro looked hysteric, pushing her husband's arm away as she came out of her chair. She rocked forwards a little, losing balance in her desperation and black, low-heeled shoes, but she found her centre and walked recklessly forwards a few paces. Every mention was filled with a great sort of pain, sort of burden. _Sort of_ regret?

Itachi smiled to his transparent reflection in the window.

_Perhaps_.

"Sachiro," he could hear his mother saying. "Please, calm down. I don't think Itachi would ever–"

"Shut up, Mikoto! My son is _dead_. So don't try to reason with me and tell me Itachi had nothing to do with it, because he was there! God damn it, does no one here see it? What's wrong with you? How could you let him… how could you even…" Her voice began crackling, upper body jolting as she began to lode the battle for control with herself, and all the emotions pent up inside of her. Slowly, she sank down to her knees, letting her husband comfort her with mumbled words and support her as she continued to glower at the dusty red carpet. A marionette with its strings cut – she could no longer move.

"I just wanted… I wanted good for him, the best… I wanted him to be happy…," she sobbed, choking on the words, only half-audible. "They never appreciate it… he could've appreciated it…."

Itachi's fingertips pressed to the frigid windowpane, leaving hazy streaks to mark the paths they had taken.

"And do you really think _you_ had nothing to do with it?" he asked then, though through her sobs, she could barely answer. His voice grew louder, more frantic with each question. "You looked at the autopsy report, didn't you? All those bruises and scrapes – and the _cuts_ on his arms? On his hips? They were deep, weren't they? They looked like they bled quite a bit, didn't they? And how much blood did you find on his bed-sheets when you discovered him that morning, and why was it there? Can you tell me that?"

Sachiro's mouth moved, trying to form bitter phrases and curses for him, but only more cries came, growing louder and more desperate as she went on and on…

"I think we should go now, Mikoto, Sasuke," Fugaku said. And then to his sister, quietly: "I'm sorry, Sachiro."

They drove home in silence. Mikoto quietly told her children they could stay home from school the next day if they wanted, but Sasuke decided not to. Itachi did not answer, and by that point, no one expected him to. No more questions were asked, conveniently, since none of them really wanted the truthful answers just then.

The following night at 7:30, the police called to inquire about arranging a meeting ("Just a meeting, nothing more") with Uchiha Itachi. The only detail they would reveal was that it would concern the suicide of Itachi's friend, Uchiha Shisui, who had – according to the official report – taken his life with a myriad of his mother's sleeping pills and a bottle of vodka.

_**-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-**_

A soft click ended the phone call, and Mikoto brought the phone back down into its cream-coloured holder with a sigh. Part of her desperately wanted nothing but to settle down in her bed and sleep, but she knew that there was still a small amount of housework she had put off that needed to be done. Cleaning usually cleared her head, and felt pleasant, satisfying, but lately she could hardly bring herself to empty the dishwasher, let alone dust anything. Every act felt tedious and meaningless…

"Don't worry about it," she heard Fugaku say as her eyes drifted towards the closet in which the vacuum was stored. "You can clean tomorrow, after you get some sleep."

"But I–"

"You're under a lot of stress, Mikoto," he told her, sipping at his drink. "Just go to bed. I know what's best for you."

Despite his words, Mikoto lifted herself onto a stool opposite him, folding her hands in her lap as she stared – brow furrowed and lips set anxiously – at the countertop.

"They want to see him tomorrow," she murmured, as if Fugaku didn't already know. "After school. I'll drive him there when his piano lesson finishes."

Fugaku gave an apathetic shrug. "I'm sure he can _walk_; it's not that far."

"I know, but… but I want to be there."

"He's not a _child_, Mikoto. And neither is Sasuke, if you were planning on babying him now too."

"I don't care!" she said with a sudden burst of frustration, twisting violently to stare at her husband. "Itachi is my son! And his best friend just… well, obviously he's not going to be okay after that. And now – and now they think he had something to do with it. Child or not, that's going to affect someone, Fugaku."

She could feel herself shaking, as if a great rush of electricity were pulsing through her. Her hands, her legs, her lips and the lean muscles of her neck… all of her, trembling. Full of emotion that had suddenly found a temporary outlet.

"He's your son too," she whispered. "Aren't you worried about him? At all? He needs time, and he needs help. I know he's capable and responsible – so _so_ much more than anyone his age, and sometimes even us – but he's still human." And then, covered by the sound of an empty glass she let clatter down into their messy sink: "And so am I."

She looked up at him, now fully aware of how damp her cheeks were, and yet he still wasn't looking at her. No, he continued glaring straight ahead, as if she didn't matter, or exist at all.

"You're not even listening to me, are you?"

Silence.

"Fugaku…?"

Continuing.

"Please, dear, just look at me. I want to know that you can hear me… that you…"

Relentless.

"I thought," she choked, the sound strangled and warped, "that w-we had cleared all of this up… that you wouldn't be so hard on him, or Sasuke… or me… _God, Fugaku, you're not even listening to me!_"

Dishes were dropped loudly into the sink. Her husband didn't flinch.

"When was the last time you bothered to _listen_ to me? Or… or _kiss_ me? Or we that we _made love_, Fugaku, how long has it been? Do I even _matter_ to you anymore!"

Up twenty-one stairs, face pressed hard into a pillow though his ears heard the noise anyway, Sasuke flinched at the screeching tremor of her voice. It broke through his barriers and forced him to listen, to really _listen_ for once. But oh, it was so much nicer to pretend he couldn't hear any of those harrowingly familiar noises, _no, not at all_…

"Does any of this mean _anything_, anymore?"


	8. Giddiness

**Deity**

Chapter 7: головокружéние

_головокружéние - golovokrudzenie (goh-loh-voh-kroo-dzyeh-nee-eh) - giddiness_

Suicide is the proof of life.

- Kyo (Dir en Grey), 'The Final'

_**-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-**_

The next morning, after Fugaku left for work, Mikoto drove her sons to school, ignoring their offers to walk and save her the trouble. She dropped Sasuke off first and much to his exaggerated embarrassment, pulled him back to the car to give his cheek a quick kiss good-bye before letting him run off. The door fell shut, and then she and Itachi were alone.

"It's been a while since I've driven you," she said, glancing at him in the rear-view mirror. "You want to be dropped off at the front, right?"

He shrugged nonchalantly. "The side would be better; it's closer to my locker."

"Oh, alright."

Despite the fact that his eyes remained directed somewhere out the window for the rest of the drive, he could feel Mikoto's glances back at him, though it was only as she pulled over to drop him off that she turned around to look at him completely.

"Have a good day, honey," she murmured. Her gaze could be read effortlessly, brimming with worry interspersed with hope, much deeper than that which the usual mother would have (and with good reason too). She probably knew she didn't have to disguise it, Itachi thought, since he would've seen through her anyways. And she didn't have to ask for a kiss, because he leaned forwards and touched his lips tenderly to her porcelain cheek (she always looked younger than she was). It felt to Mikoto that he lingered a little. She had always been under the impression that he let her in a little bit, and truthfully, Itachi found his Mother quite beautiful, though a bit weak-willed and breakable (that's where Sasuke must've gotten it from…). Today she was lovely in a catastrophic way; her face was free of make-up, painted with unbridled emotion instead.

_Like a statue of the Virgin Mary; beautifully crafted, and yet no one can deny the sadness in her eyes for the loss of her son…_

"I'll see you tonight," she told him, and he nodded to acknowledge her as he gathered his things.

(We live, we learn. We try to save ourselves.)

"Thank you," he said to her, and then almost as an afterthought. "Good luck with your appointment."

No, there really was no use hiding anything from him. But at least he meant it; she didn't doubt that he did for a second. She could tell.

Mothers can always tell.

_**-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-**_

_As soon as the door to her psychiatrist's office swung shut, Mikoto burst into tears. First, a shudder ran through her, pale vein-threaded eyelids falling closed as if in attempt to extinguish the image of everything around her. Then the sobs started, and for once, she didn't force herself to subdue them._

_Her cries continued, and in the midst of it she found herself remembering (for whatever reason) the small box she had hidden in her dresser; a miniature acrylic paint set Itachi had given her for Mother's Day the year previous. She had wanted to use it immediately – oh, she wanted nothing more some days – but never had she seized the opportunity. Not while she still had meals to cook, a house to clean, and other – 'more practical', to use Fugaku's words – things to spend her time on._

_Besides, she had been afraid that once she started painting, she wouldn't be able to stop herself until she'd gotten everything out of her; all those emotions she knotted up and gagged herself with, things she couldn't – no, things she was_ afraid_ to say. They would come out of her in colours and textures, alive and blatant on the canvas, paint-stains all over her once immaculate hands and clothing._

"_Mikoto…?"_

_Oh, it seemed just impossible to hold it all in anymore… and if she tried, she knew she would soon burst._

_**-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-**_

For the next few weeks or so, life went by in a distorted sort of rush for Itachi, as if everyone around him kept moving – quickly, quickly, quickly – while he made no effort to keep up. Well, not quite that… there really was no way to describe it. Perhaps it would be better said that he had taken a step back from life, and stopped struggling to keep up with the current. Instead, he simply let it carry him wherever it willed, taking a little more time to _observe_ things.

Shock, one of the school's counsellors called it. "After one looses a friend," she said, "it's often you will feel great depression and anxiety." And: "We're always here if you need us." And: "Things will be okay. Life will go on." And: "We understand."

The counsellor smiled widely at him then, and Itachi noted mentally what a terrible actor she was.

The hallways had never been so filled with people, or so it seemed from his eyes. Quite a few of them knew him, knew what happened, and offered sympathetic gazes (but filled with joy at the fact that they were not in his situation). Not many of them spoke to him, and those who did just drifted along as soon as they had made peace with their need to be "good people". They had nothing to be sorry for. It was almost repulsive.

Itachi had stopped hanging around Shisui's friends altogether.

Only one of them ever really made an effort at conversation, and that, interestingly enough, had been Shisui's ex-girlfriend, the trumpet player. It had been after school one day; there hadn't been any snowfall but the sky was thick and dark with clouds, a soft fog blurring the streets around them (dreamlike; fantasy; unreal). There had been a smouldering cigarette between her lips, and she dug through the pockets of her coat to offer Itachi one as well, though he politely declined her offer.

While she spoke, she played with the lighter clasped in her right hand, painted nails clacking against the sides.

"When I knew Shisui," she had said, "he seemed pretty happy. Most of the time he was, anyways. But I guess you never really know with people, huh?"

Itachi shook his head. "No…"

"It's just kinda _scary_." The girl leaned back against the wall, obviously restless. "I mean, how quickly people just go like that. My aunt died last summer – got hit by a car. One day she was there, and the next day she wasn't. Any day now, I could go, or you could, and no one could see it coming. God knows I'm already setting myself up for it." She glared at her cigarette, inhaling thickly from it a second later anyways. "I mean, I don't wanna die. I like living. I make a mess of it, but I like it a goddamn lot, and I don't know how someone could willingly… take it away from themselves…."

(_Only by witnessing death can we really know what it is to live…_)

Her head turned towards Itachi, as if seeking some sort of contradiction from him. He merely stared at her, however, studying her a while before saying softly, but with a spark of amusement that she ignored: "If you're wondering if you had anything to do with it, I don't think you did."

"I…" The girl (her name he couldn't recall) blinked at him, distraught, before her features settled back into a collected mask. Without a doubt, that was what she had wanted to hear, what she had needed to hear for a little piece of mind. No matter how steadily someone is able to maintain him or herself, there is always a little bit of doubt nagging at them from underneath, small cracks in the façade they put out. Truly, you can never know someone completely. Most find it hard to know themselves.

"So I guess… Shisui did what he did," because no one ever said 'suicide', "for a reason. Huh?"

Itachi didn't grant her a nod, instead lifting his slim shoulders lightly in motion of an optimistic shrug. You never really know with "reasons"; some claim there is a reason for everything, while others insist there is no reason, and everything that happens is just random event. In any case, it seemed then that they had no more words for each other and so they parted with a somewhat, and perhaps desperately inviting, "Well, I'll see you around sometime, alright?" from the girl.

(_In death, we re-experience that awe we knew as infants, only now we have learned to fear it…_)

No one ever mentioned the fact that Itachi had been questioned by the police, but it wasn't quite safe to assume they didn't know. The meeting had gone well, of course. Itachi explained the nature of his visit was friendly; and yes, Shisui had seemed upset when he had gotten there, but no, he had no idea that Shisui might try to commit suicide, and no, he had left much earlier – two hours earlier, actually – than the time they estimated Shisui had started the pills.

If Itachi were to be entirely honest with himself, he would admit without a single doubt that he did miss Shisui. How could he not? Shisui had been his friend for a long time, one of the only people he ever felt he could really communicate with. He did care for Shisui, in an emotional way that had slipped into physical. Shisui had been an anchor, an escape, and of course… a gorgeously consuming distraction.

Shisui's end had been tragic, that was undisputable, but in a small way, Itachi was happy for Shisui, and even a little envious. Shisui had found the courage among weakness to do it, to take the plunge and leave the tiring, _harrowing_ routine they slaved to behind. Sometimes, lying sleepless in his bed for hours a night, Itachi would imagine what Shisui's expression might have been in those last fleeting irreversible moments. And each time, he looked as if he had finally found an escape more glorious than anything Itachi, or razor blades, or his parents' satisfaction could ever give him.

(_In death, we seek God; we seek certainty for all those things we don't know…_)

En fin, Shisui had won.

**_-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-_**

"_Don't play stupid with me."_

_All he knew was the pain, coming in sharp vertiginous bursts that seemed a warning, as if he were going to be torn apart (flesh ripping easily and carelessly, like that of an discarded – unwanted – doll, and his insides were going to come out, but no, no, he couldn't, he had to hold them in!). He could feel the smoothness of floorboards pressing into his cheek, one shoulder aching from its sudden contact with the ground._

"_Are you listening? You're never listening!"_

_His muscles were pleading for it to stop, for him to get up and run somewhere, to get away, but he remained limp in the position he had fallen in. Running, he knew, would be a bad idea._

'_Just don't move' he told himself, 'and it'll be okay… just don't make another mistake. It'll be over soon.'_

"_Get up. Now."_

_He felt his father's hand on his back, strong fingers grasping the fabric of his shirt and pulling him, like strings lifting a marionette. And just like those lifeless, painted dolls, the dark-haired boy obeyed as if he had no choice (did he?), scrambling to his feet and making a quick pass at his hand with his face to hide his defiant tears. He could feel the apologies and sobs pressing against the wall of his throat, but he ignored them and the sore spots on his body (another bruise, that's the price)._

'_Can't afford another mistake…'_

(Pathetic).

**_-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-_**

It was like a breaking, or the rush of something as it suddenly came down on you after building and building above you for an agonizingly long time. Sometimes you could ignore the threat of it (or at least pretend to), disregarding the pressure as it started to weigh you down from every angle. There was paranoia as well, making you tense and easily startled, fearing that any moment, it could finally crumble, rupture, and you would have to bear its full weight again.

It had been quiet for such a long time in that house they called 'home'.

And the noise that came when the silence was finally shattered was nearly unbearable.

When thinking about it later (much later, it seemed, though it wasn't really), Itachi remembered being in his room at the time. There was a book in his lap, but he was not reading so much as leaning against a few pillows he had propped up against his wall and staring mindlessly at the patterns of ink on the pages. His brain simply couldn't focus on the words, and any attempt to decipher their meaning was altogether useless. Where his mind was right then he couldn't say, only that he had been jolted out of its state easily by the clamour downstairs.

In the matter of a few seconds, all thought had abandoned him. He set the book down beside him on the bed without bothering to dog-ear the page, and for a moment, he sat as still as he could manage, just listening. He heard _those_ voices just as he had before, uttering _those _words in _those _vehement tones. The sounds came up through the layers of insulation and floorboards, hovering about the bare soles of his feet, dangling just above the ground. And despite the fact that he'd heard them many (_far_ too many) times before, he remained motionless, as if in some sort of shock.

He would recall, with a bit of a smile (most likely noted as 'deranged' or 'inappropriate', though 'gentle' could've been attributed to it as well), how he didn't have any memory of getting up, making his legs move him out of his bedroom and down the stairs, though he knew he did reach the bottom somehow. One hand rested on the end of the banister as he listened again. The noises were louder now, or maybe it was only the comparison to the house's silence – the silence that had comforted, held, and mocked them for everlasting days – that made it seem as such.

Here, in contrast, his memories are overly sharp. Each footstep and each breath are alive beneath his eyelids, the smell of soap drifting from the kitchen (he wonders vaguely where Mikoto is). Here, he saw himself standing in the doorway to the living room, the hand that had held the banister now finding support in the doorframe. He saw the piano with the bench tucked in and his books piled neatly on top, among picture frames. He saw his father, who stood facing away from him in the middle of the room.

And he remembered closing his eyes before he could see anymore, but knowing it was there anyways. He heard the faint strain of a whimper as it left his brother's lips (pale, thin lips, pressed lips, chapped lips like Shisui's).

It was _too_ familiar, and the nostalgia was thick, painful. Like a reoccurring dream where you've already seen the tragic ending time and time before, you _know_ you can't stop it; you haven't been able to any night before, so why should now be any different? You've made all those mistakes before, and you're going to make them again…

Itachi was afraid to open his eyes. He could feel the fleshy pads of his fingers pressing hard against the wooden doorframe, trying to hold himself in balance while waves of sickness (among other things) crashed through him, another larger one starting as soon as one had passed. It seemed as if he could suddenly hear every little thing that was going on in that room, as well as taste it, smell it, and _feel_ it. He was afraid then, devastatingly afraid that if he opened his eyes he would be overcome. This was not like times before when everything felt bigger, more alive and more a part of him, this was much the opposite. This was overwhelming, but instead of pulsing through him to cause elation – to make him lightless and amazed – this made him so heavy he thought himself barely able to move. It pulled him down, making him want to purge, and he was disgusted at himself for it.

It had started with the noise, but now everything was breaking.

What really got to him, though, was that he could not stop it. It had finally caught up to him, that bundle of thoughts and feelings he had pushed aside or disguised. And he felt himself starting to panic, frantically attempting to gather his thoughts and reign them back in tightly. Again, it was useless. He felt helpless (he felt _human_).

Oh yes, everything was really coming apart now… really coming undone.

Another wave washed over him (how long all this took, he honestly had no idea. Time had ceased to mean anything to him then), and as it began to fade, he felt beneath it a little piece of bliss coming back to him. It was mindless, disorganized, but lovely in how chaotic it was and he grabbed hold of it tightly. He felt himself inhale deeply, and though dizziness still had a strong hold on his head, he let his eyes come open.

"Stop."

At first, it seemed as if his voice had been too quiet and no one had heard him. But slowly, the scene awoke. It was Sasuke first, glancing up hesitantly at his brother from beneath a tangle of dark hair. His body seemed smaller than it ever had then, as he crouched on the floor with his knees pulled into himself, as if prepared to protect his abdomen. All the details of the room were abuzz, screaming, and finally Fugaku turned his head to look at Itachi over his shoulder.

His eyes were dark, as they always were, but maybe Itachi hadn't really noticed it until that point. He stared at his son for a few seconds before he spoke, hints of surprise in his voice as he did.

"What are you doing–?"

"Get away from him." Itachi felt the words come out of his mouth impulsively. He took a step forwards as soon as the thought came to him, without even stopping to consider the consequences of his actions, or his other options. And there was a wonderful freedom in it. Finally.

"Don't you dare touch him again," he said, his voice becoming louder with each word. "He's done nothing to deserve it."

Fugaku's gaze remained apathetic, unaffected by his son's words.

"That's not for you to judge," he said simply. "Some lessons need to be learned."

Itachi was closer by this time, and his gaze had drifted down to Sasuke, who was watching the confrontation with wide, frightened eyes. Though Sasuke himself was unaware of it, Itachi could see a splotch of pink blooming on Sasuke's cheek; it wasn't big, but against the pale skin, it was vibrant. It was all just contrast. It was all just point-of-view.

"I won't let you," came Itachi's voice again, as more of his rapidly forming thoughts combined into words and coherency. "I won't let you anymore. I've had it. Get away from him, now."

"What's gotten into you?"

"I said get away from him!"

Itachi listened to the cadence of his voice, hanging in the air above them and reverberating all around. Sasuke flinched, still keeping himself deathly quiet while a look of bemusement spread over Fugaku's face.

"Itachi." His tone was stern, a challenge and a threat. Something like this certainly hadn't happened before, and he was unsure of how to deal with it, to get rid of it. He just couldn't let it go on as it was.

"Go back upstairs," he said, speaking slowly to make sure Itachi listened to every word. "This doesn't concern you."

Itachi shook his head at this, standing his ground. There was just over a metre between them; if Fugaku had wanted, he could have stepped forward and hit Itachi right across the face, but for whatever reason, he didn't.

"Not until you get away from him."

"I said, _this doesn't concern you_," Fugaku snarled.

"It doesn't matter if it does or not," said Itachi. "Get away from Sasuke. Don't lay another hand on him. I should've stopped you earlier, much earlier, but…" and he faltered, the exact words to explain slipping through the cracks. "Don't you dare touch him again."

Fugaku eyed his son. "You know, I'm beginning to think that Sachiro was completely right about you."

"Right about what? That I was the one who pushed Shisui into killing himself?" Itachi asked. He took another step forward, reckless and fierce, but sure. "It was your sister and her husband that did it. They just pressured him, and pressured him, and _beat_ him until he couldn't stand it anymore. Do you realize that? Do you realize what they did to him? All of you, fascists! _Stalinists_!"

"And yet you still think you had no part in it?" Fugaku accused. "You've always been naïve, Itachi. For a while now, you've been on the edge of something like this… or maybe longer. Maybe you've always been this corrupt."

"If I am corrupt, who do you think corrupted me?"

"You corrupted _yourself_!" Fugaku shouted. "I tried to get you to turn out the right way, and it was working. But you went off and completely made a mess of yourself, and then dragged Shisui down with you! I suppose you intend to bring Sasuke along now, is that it? You're _sick_."

"I–"

"Be quiet!" he roared. "You need to learn your place! I am your Father, and I will raise you and your brother in the way I know is right! I will not have you ruining what I have built for this family! I will not have you ruining things for your brother like you have ruined them for yourself and Shisui as well!"

With that, he closed the distance between Itachi and himself with one long stride. Sasuke, who had remained on the floor in his awkward position, let out a quiet cry and buried his face into his arms, his entire body quivering madly with muted sobs. But Itachi stared Fugaku straight down fearlessly, watching as his father approached, pulling his right arm back. And in the split-second before skin met skin, Itachi could feel a push of air against his cheek. Then pain; all he knew in that moment was the pain, ripping through his cheek. Familiar, however it was in such a way that it almost didn't matter.

The most glorious sound of heartbeat filled Itachi's ears as the blood rushed back into his face. He had been pushed back a step by the force of his father's assault, but only physically was he at all fazed. One hand rose to his face, touching the wound gently. He could see Sasuke behind his father still, forgotten for a while, and Itachi smiled.

"Is that all?" he asked. "All you're going to do is hit me? You should know that's not going to work anymore."

"Ungrateful brat," Fugaku hissed.

Itachi smirked. "Words won't work either. I'm quite able to hold my own against you with words."

Almost quicker than he could see, his father drew his arm back again and sent his fist at Itachi's other cheek. The same sort of pain exploded there again, but it made no difference.

"Is that all?" Itachi asked again. Yes, this was great! His father's attention was focused solely on him now, not a shred of it on Sasuke. That was all that really mattered just then; Itachi would take any kind of pain, any words his father threw at him. None of it mattered – right now, he was able to make sure absolutely none of that emotion hindered him.

His father's fists pushed him back a few more steps, delivering blows to his shoulders and chest. This was the kind of rage that was uncontrollable, addicting, and without needed reason. Itachi could feel blood dribbling down his chin from the cut in his lip, and an ache in his shoulders as he was pushed to the ground. There he stared up at his father, eyes meeting eyes fearlessly, challenging. And for a moment, maybe more, he saw something in his Father's expression falter.

('Can this be called victory?')

And Fugaku's eyes pulled away, catching sight of a figure off to the side.

"…what's going on here?"

Mikoto had filled the spot in the open doorway where Itachi had stood, dressed in only a white terrycloth bathrobe that made her skin looked even more flushed than it was from her shower. Her hair was still soaked, dripping pools onto her shoulders, and the floor below. There was something a bit hysterical about the way her eyes scrolled over them, though her body was relaxed, passive.

"Are you going to answer me, Fugaku?" she said, voice soft, but with a severe edge to it.

Fugaku glanced at her, slightly perturbed by how solid her words came.

"Discipline," he said, as if this would make her understand everything. And this seemed to be the answer she expected, the despair on her face sinking in deeper as she turned her head to look at Sasuke, who was still cowering alone where Fugaku had left him. From behind the cover of a slim hand he watched, his breath pattern still uneven and pained.

"You call this discipline?" she asked steadily, sadly. "You were beating up your own sons, Fugaku. What could they have done to need that sort of discipline?"

"I wouldn't expect you to understand, Mikoto," Fugaku told her callously. "But there does need to be a certain order around here."

"Order," Itachi repeated, now having pulled himself to his feet again. "Look what this order has brought you and your sister…"

"Shut up!" Fugaku directed another blow at his son, but stopped as Mikoto rushed over to them and another sharp "Stop!" hit the air. One of her thin arms came across Itachi's shoulder protectively, pulling her body in front of his. She seemed quite small then, an inch or two shorter than Itachi at least, but she stayed her ground, glaring up at her husband aggressively.

"Get out of the way, Mikoto," he said, but she refused to move. "I'm _warning_ you…"

"Are you going to hit her too?" Itachi asked. "Like you hit me… and Sasuke? Are you going to 'discipline' her too?"

Fugaku sneered. "She knew what was going on!"

"Yes, but… but I never knew it was this bad!" Mikoto protested. "And I was afraid! What was I supposed to do? You never listened to me… I tried to talk to you, but you hardly even paid attention to me at all! What could I do?" Her fierceness had dwindled, every word she spoke sounding like an excuse as she tried to regain herself again. "What you do isn't right! You shouldn't be hurting them… they don't deserve that."

"You're a fool," he told her bitterly. "Our son's a murdering faggot, and you're a goddamn fool."

Before she or Itachi could get another word out, Fugaku was taking leave from the room with strong strides. They heard him in the kitchen – the sound of something banging down against the counter, a closet door opening and slamming shut again, the jingling of keys – and then he reappeared in the hall, giving a curt glance to his wife and eldest son.

"I'm going away for the night; this all should be sorted out by the morning," he told them dismissively as he pulled on his coat. "Such a disappointment…"

The front door slammed shut behind him, and it was as if the entire house exhaled deeply as they descended into silence. Adrenaline faded out, and soon, all Itachi could hear was the sound of a clock ticking somewhere in the house, and his brother's panicked respiration.

"Sasuke…"

More droplets of water were shaken onto the floor as Mikoto knelt down in front of Sasuke, shifting her bathrobe a bit as to make sure she was covered before the younger boy latched tightly onto her, pressing his face into the soft white material covering her shoulder. She rocked him gently, forward and back, stroking his back and hair protectively. Tranquillity was washing over them, somewhat of a hesitant relief, not knowing whether it was deserved or not. But the battle, at least, was over, and now they could rest, not having to worry until morning chose to wake them.

Itachi remembered standing very close to his Mother and brother then, none of them speaking, and suddenly finding that he didn't know what to think about all this. In his mouth he tasted blood, bitter and metallic, and slipped his tongue over his lips into attempt to clean them of the red stickiness. He probably looked like a mess… bruises crowding his face as they began to bud, swelling up and discolouring his pale skin. They stung, but he couldn't really feel it. Things were beginning to get a bit blurry, all dripping into each other. He was drifting out again…

"Itachi."

He felt a hand close around his wrist.

"Take Sasuke," Mikoto was saying to him. "Get yourselves cleaned up and then go to bed. It's Saturday tomorrow, so you can sleep in as long as you like."

"Mom…"

Mikoto was smiling again, smiling so hard she had almost convinced herself she meant it. It almost hurt to see her mouth twisting that way, and the tears on her cheeks as she squeezed Itachi's shoulder, begging him with her eyes.

"I'm sorry," she murmured.

"You don't have to…"

"I do." She sighed, pulling her bathrobe a little tighter around herself. "I need you to take care of your brother right now, Itachi. Please. I'll be okay, I just… have to make a few phone calls, that's all. It's you… you just make sure you're okay."

She nudged them out of the room, her eyes still stuck on the photographs sitting atop the piano and the smiling faces staring back at her. And she couldn't stop wondering to just how much she had let herself be ignorant to all those years_ (she used to love him, you know?)_, and just how much it would hurt to finally see how much of who she used to be had been worn down over time.

Yes, their 'home' had split wide open. Finally.


	9. Nothing

**Deity**

Chapter 8: нолль

_нолль - noll (nohll) – nothing_

'It is so much simpler to bury reality than it is to dispose of dreams.'

- Don Delillo, _Americana_

_**-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-**_

Itachi let Sasuke splash lukewarm handfuls of water onto his face until the liquid that dripped down into the sink ran clear, and the washcloth that had been dabbed at his bleeding lips and nose was splotched a messy red. At first, Itachi had protested being taken care of by and before Sasuke (with a sticky feeling of guilt swelling up in his throat).

"It's fine…," he had murmured, the words sounding foreign to his ears as he spoke them, but Sasuke wouldn't have it. His behaviour – silent, sullen, responsible in an understated way – had surprised Itachi, who had remained equally as quiet while he leaned over the sink. No, it still hadn't quite sunk deep enough to become real to him. The memory that floated on the rough surface appeared like a dream threatening to capsize any moment, and leave him with nothing but a whim and the hazy, wishful figments that were the result.

Once Itachi's face had been rinsed clean, he took the washcloth from Sasuke and laid it over the neck of the stainless steel tap to dry.

"Thank you," he said, coming close to inaudibility. "And now you… where did…"

Sasuke directed a reluctant shrug at the floor tiles. "I'm okay."

"Sasuke."

In the edges of his vision, he could see Itachi's fingers stiffen, their boney structure becoming more visible through his skin as they grew more rigid. Why _now_ of all times did they start feeling distant, each word putting a little more space between them. Probably just some adjusting, Itachi felt himself thinking, our minds are having trouble absorbing what happened, and soon things will return to normal (well, not _normal_, but as close as they could come).

"Really," said Sasuke. "Just bruises."

"_Sasuke_."

His name again, formed by syllables strained and pleading, the type he didn't usually (and didn't _want_ to) hear coming from his brother's mouth. But they persuaded an upwards glance from Sasuke nonetheless, the look in his eyes… Itachi found he could not place it.

"We should probably get to bed, then…" he mumbled, daring one hand forwards slowly to Sasuke's shoulder, but quickly withdrawing at the sharp flinch it elicited from his brother.

As they headed out into the badly lit hallway, they could hear their mother's hushed voice drifting up from downstairs, speaking teary run-on sentences into the phone between staggered breaths. Her bare feet slapped against the kitchen floor as she paced around and around, tracing circles…

When they reached the door to his room, Itachi paused, one hand resting idly on the doorknob.

"If you want," he said quietly after a few seconds. "You can stay in my room tonight, with me."

_**-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-**_

_My fault… this was my fault in the beginning, wasn't it?_

_I can't tell. I can't remember anymore. Any memories I managed to keep (masochist, masochist, what a bloody masochist!) have collapsed into themselves, leaking into and polluting each other. How do I know if all these things I have in my head… if they ever actually happened? I could've made them all up, altered them to fit my ideals, colours and shadows bleeding into each other as I mislead myself, separate myself, distract myself, fool myself._

_Is that it? I can't tell…_

_That's the problem with humans, you know. We are more entranced with our fantasies than reality. We become obsessed with them, weaving ourselves into them… we don't want to face our mistakes and our emotions for what they really are, so we distance ourselves, wanting to get rid of them to make us less human, to perfect ourselves. So we look at them as if through a piece of distorted glass ("Now we look through a glass, darkly"), fascinated with the image of ourselves we see here and the fatality of it._

_And that's it, isn't it? Selfishly, and foolishly; we're afraid, and it becomes beautiful to us, yes, we just get caught up in it, and obsessed until it consumes us until we're too fascinated with death to really live at all…_

_(You've got to live for me.)_

_So is it still my fault?_

_Yes… it's still my fault. I've been so stupid. All my distractions are gone, a step taken too far, and I can almost see this for what it really is. For what I've managed to do, what I created (like an artist, fashioning this tragedy, almost like _God_, wasn't I? Almost)._

_Forgive me… it was all a mistake._

_I don't want this to be real anymore._

_**-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-**_

Half lost in thought, it took a while for Itachi to notice a pyjama-clad Sasuke sitting on the edge of the mattress beside him, legs swinging gently like pendulums so his toes brushed against the carpet below. Sasuke stared at his knees, swing after swing kept in perfect time. He heard Itachi exhale deeply, not quite a sigh, raising one hand to his head if trying to hold his thoughts in. It had seemed so simple just ten minutes ago, everything sick and brilliant, but now it was faded and a frenzy of thoughts had bombarded him…

An image of Sasuke curled up on the floor had become stuck in his mind (_was this my fault?_) and refused to leave. A new memory, a terrible one, but a _real_ one and he was sure of that.

(_I don't know… I can't tell…_)

It was in one gradual motion that Sasuke came to lean against Itachi in the same hesitant embrace they had shared during the funeral. Itachi almost choked on the intoxicating warmth he could feel hovering about Sasuke's body, though at the same time, he was repulsed by the pulls of jealously echoing in his own chest. He ignored them, making his arms pull Sasuke in a little tighter (protected).

And here it came, finally, washing over him. Every little detail buzzing about the room became entirely unimportant in this coming undone, and realization, and _release_!

Because, if only for the moment, they were safe. _Sasuke_ was safe. Sasuke was okay, and breathing softly against his neck. Alive in the true definition of the word, filled with a fluttery heartbeat (pulsing blood, this glorious proof) as Itachi pushed a few fingers up through the back of Sasuke's dark hair.

"I'm sorry," were the first words that came from his mouth, feeling far too heavy to stay on his tongue without forcing him to gag.

He felt Sasuke stiffen.

"Why?" the younger asked in alarm. "What did–?"

"It shouldn't have gone on for as long as I let it," said Itachi, cutting him off. "I should've done something… to stop him, Dad. Stop him from hurting you. Said something, or done _something_."

"It doesn't matter…," Sasuke responded, awkwardly.

"No." Itachi's fingertips against Sasuke's scalp (closer), caught up in his words. "It was my fault, because I let it happen. I let him hurt you."

"But it wasn't," Sasuke said as he pulled back from the embrace. "He was just… I deserved it."

"Don't you dare say that!"

Sasuke's eyes squeezed tight as he winced, Itachi's hold on him getting tighter despite his short outburst. (_I've got to keep you safe… got to keep you unlike me.)_

"You didn't 'deserve' it," Sasuke heard his brother mumbling to him, frantically. "Not at all. I don't care what Dad might've told you, the only reason he hurt you was because he was… he was demented; it wasn't you who was at fault. No mistakes you could ever make could make you deserve that. Look at me, Sasuke."

Again, the pleading, nearly desperate tones of Itachi's voice convinced Sasuke to comply, head tilting back at the lead of Itachi's lithe hand. His neck was at such an angle that one of the arteries could been seen clearly, throbbing rhythmically in _allegro_ through razor blade thin layers of skin.

"You never 'deserved' any of it." Itachi whispered, desperate to make his brother believe him. "Okay?"

"But because of me –" Sasuke started, "because of me, look what Dad did to you!"

"This wasn't because of you."

"It _was_," insisted Sasuke. "He did it because you tried to defend me! My punishment went to you, and–"

"Stop it," said Itachi. "It wasn't right what he did, either way, and I chose to get in the way. I just needed to – _wanted_ to protect you, and I did." He smiled a little, though it looked a little off. "Please stop thinking it was because of you."

"_But_–"

Itachi thought for a moment of covering Sasuke's lips with his fingertips, but caught himself before the impulse was acted upon.

"It wasn't. Listen to your big brother, okay? Please. Trust me. You never deserved any of what he did to you."

Pausing, and then tentatively nodding, Sasuke lifted his arms in attempt to return the safety of Itachi's embrace, the reassurance.

"And neither did you, Nii-san."

Itachi descended into silence. The moment pulsated twice, strongly, bringing everything into sharp focus before it faded all at once.

"I…"

(_That's the problem with humans you know… more entranced with fantasies than reality. We become obsessed…_)

The distances between them were quiet for a long time, and soon Sasuke could feel Itachi shaking, first his fingers, just a bit of unsteadiness, but like an infection, it spread until his entire body seemed to be shivering. Overwhelmed, and filled with a sudden awareness.

"Right?" Sasuke urged.

But Itachi found himself unable to answer. The mess of thoughts in his head was thinning, becoming a little clearer with each one he could identify as bitter truth (_…and we just get caught up in…_), the kind people always ignore. He was the same as everyone else even if he tried to deny it, resplendently and chaotically human. He had been naïve, trying to separate himself when he was just wading deeper in. He had tried to protect his brother, but ended up abandoning him (_selfishly_). He had tried to distract himself, but became more attached (_and foolishly_). A hypocrite (_just like…_), believing he was 'living' when all he was doing was destroying what he had, piece by piece, and revelling in it. There was so much more, but essentially, wasn't that it?

It was a mess, of course, and a beautiful one._ But was there anything more to it than that?_

"Oh, God…," Itachi heard himself murmur, feeling the heated sting of vomit in the back of his throat.

This… all of this. It was his fault. Blatant and vivid in front of him, he felt suddenly naïve and vulnerable with no more distractions to hide in, manipulating himself in plain sight.

"Nii-san?"

(_I was just trying to save you… to try to make you something unlike me. You had a chance_)

Sasuke was peering up at him with frightened eyes, lips parted slightly in a selfless worry as he rose up on his knees as to be at eye-level with his brother. Every detail was too brilliant and too genuine, the likes of which a painting could never compare. No one could ever capture it; the feel of Sasuke's fingers pressing into him, the intricate shadows – shadows, only the blockage of light, nothing more, _nothing more_ – out of which he emerged, messy eyelashes… this was no painting at all, no idealistic art…

(_and look what I've done to you._)

This was _real_.

"Nii-san, are you okay? Did I say something…?"

The only words on his tongue were 'I'm sorry' again, but he forced a swallow to get rid of them, even if he was only pushing them back down into himself for the time being. Clinging to the feeling of Sasuke against him, he managed another semi-controlled smile, slowly opening the space between them.

"Of course not," he said. "I'm just a little… tired. And there's a lot on my mind. We should probably get to sleep, and things will work out in the morning," followed by a whisper under his breath, as if by force of habit: "I promise."

"A-alright," said Sasuke, clearly unsatisfied but not willing to press Itachi any further.

They lingered in their embrace for reassurance, among other things. Neither dared to move, and Itachi could feel just how desperately he wanted them to stay that way, to stay in that safe moment. Breaking away from Sasuke's warmth was undoable. Now that all the illusions had come away, Sasuke seemed to be the only thing he had left to cling to, keeping him stable and distracted. Later, he would smile with this memory, eagerly sure that it was real, and the vivid echo of sensation as he leaned down over Sasuke until he could feel his chest against his brother's and the heartbeat there in, the same as his.

One last indulgence… one last distraction… He couldn't help himself. There wasn't any point in trying to deny it, not anymore.

(_Selfish…_)

And then his lips were upon Sasuke's, greedily drinking in sensation to block out any chaotic thoughts that might seep in and keep him from the reprieve of sleep. Breathless, he managed to lose himself in it – careless bliss achieved if just for one instant before a half-muted sound stuck in Sasuke's throat caught his attention and he pulled away. Eyelids fallen shut, he listened to Sasuke's unsure breathing while he ran one hand along the side of his brother's face, memorizing every bit of it. Oh yes, now he was aware, not fooling himself in the least as he touched his mouth to the rapidly throbbing spot on Sasuke's neck, where blood was flowing and delivering life.

One last time, to taste it…

With his right hand, Itachi reached over to shut off the lamp that had been the sole light of the room and plunge them into darkness entwined, slowly lowering Sasuke down onto the mattress with him despite the churning in his stomach that made him want to vomit every "I'm sorry" right back up. He was bitter, and as he numbed himself of guilt, he began to feel sick of it. Sick with it.

"Nii-san?"

Sasuke forced himself to stay motionless as he felt Itachi's hands leaving him.

_(I was supposed to get you away from me… save you from me. And look at what I've done.)_

"Just go to sleep, Sasuke… it'll all be okay in the morning."

**_-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-_**

Three times during the night Sasuke did recall waking up, and each time he had drifted back to sleep just as quickly as he had originally. Despite all the strange happenings of that night and his frustration at being unable to understand them – especially concerning Itachi – he was able to sleep soundly for the majority of the night. There was a certain comfort that he found in Itachi's room – on Itachi's bed and wrapped in Itachi's sheets – which lingered even then. Acknowledgement.

The first two times he woke, the room was still dark, and he could feel Itachi near to him. They held each other close in sleep, bodies entwined, ignorant to the noisy passing by of cars on the road outside, radios blaring, and dogs barking loudly in neighbouring yards. Sasuke always made sure to reassure his grip on his brother before shifting into a more comfortable position and falling back into dream.

The third time, though, lamplight cut through the darkness and he could see the dim silhouette of Itachi sitting at the desk across the room, muttering to himself as he wrote. His pen was loud as it scratched against the paper, constantly pausing, scribbling something out and replacing it with something better. The space in the bed beside Sasuke was cold.

But perhaps, Sasuke had thought as slumber reeled him back in, it was nothing but a dream…

Then dawn had broken, and sunlight was overflowing from the window to illuminate the room. Any shadows were banished, the light saturating the air. Sasuke could only half open his eyes against it as he raised his heavy head from the pillow to glance around, at the rumpled sheets and the glinting of a picture frame in the pallid winter sun.

Itachi was gone.

_**-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-**_

"Good morning," said Mikoto gently as Sasuke entered the kitchen. The smell of greasy eggs was thick in the stale morning air, but Sasuke couldn't bring himself to focus on any of it for more than a few seconds. His mind was in too much a defensive fog for much to get through, subconsciously unaware. He pulled himself up onto a stool cautiously, so that the cushion beneath him didn't slip off.

"Did you sleep well?" he heard his mother ask.

He nodded. "I guess."

"Good. You slept in a bit this morning."

A loud sizzle rose from the frying pan as Mikoto flipped over an egg, glancing back at Sasuke over her shoulder before she resumed cooking. Frustrated, Sasuke pressed his fingers into the fine grain of the countertop, the exact same as it was the day before.

"And… you're okay?" she asked. Her body was positioned awkwardly, as if stuck undecided about whether she should approach him physically or not.

"Yeah," was his curt answer, cutting what could've been a lengthy conversation short. Mikoto seemed to take his word for it, going on with her cooking just like any other morning before this – a re-enactment of their previous reality before… all that. Sasuke bit down on his lip.

Was this it? Was this all?

"Um… Mom?"

"Hm? Yes, Sasuke?" She flipped another egg, trying to hide the uncertain tremor in her voice.

"Where's Itachi?"

"Oh… He just went out for a walk, a little while ago actually. Don't worry, honey." She turned to smile, as best she could. "He should be back soon. I think he's just gone to get some things out of his system, he'll be fine. And your, uh… your father called. He's gone straight to work, so he won't be home until dinner. Okay?"

Sasuke nodded again.

"Kay. Now, do you want just one egg or two? And after breakfast, can you put some clothes and other things you'd want to take with you in a bag? We're…" She paused, but filled it in with the flipping of another egg. "…going to be staying with one of my friends for a while. Like a little vacation."

"All right," Sasuke answered quietly. "And just one egg is fine."

On the windowsill, a light layer of snow glittered in the cold sunlight, casting spots across Sasuke's vision as their brightness caught his eye. Despite how his vision blurred and the edges of his eyes began to sting, he couldn't look away. He kept staring, even when his mother's arms wrapped around him from behind and her sobs drowned out the scratching of wind against the walls of their house – the walls of their _home_, to which they were prisoners. Walls that were supposed to keep them safe.

_**-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-**_

Hours passed. The snowfall that had started early that morning continued, getting thicker and thicker, the temperature plummeting. Mikoto kept the radio on the local news station, perking up at any new mention of the weather. However, it was always the same – the storm was getting worse, and Itachi was still out, somewhere. By mid-afternoon, she had started phoning anyone she could think of to see if they had seen him, though each response was negative. She had even phoned Shisui's parents three times, but they weren't home, or were refusing to pick up.

Yet it was a bit refreshing, Sasuke had to admit, that his mother wasn't just telling him his brother ran into some friends and got side-tracked. Actually, that could have been the pure and simple truth, but judging from the night before, Itachi's disappearance was something more.

There was something _wrong_.

The flakes continued to fall, creating a thicker and thicker blanket on the world. With nothing else to do – he had packed, finished his homework, and even cleaned up his room – Sasuke sat by the window in their living room that overlooked the street. It was a bit strange being in that room again, with Itachi's books still spread out on top of the piano and the empty spaces like scenery, waiting for another act, but Sasuke tried not to let it get to him. Of course, that was easier said than done.

Maybe, he found himself thinking as another gust of wind tossed up the snow, maybe his brother had just vanished.

The thought was smothered immediately. How _childish_. It obviously wasn't that. His brother had… his brother must have…

"Sasuke? Oh, there you are." Mikoto peeked in from the hall, cautiously. "Where's your bag, dear?"

"In my room."

"Could you run up and get it, quickly?"

"What about–"

"Itachi's been gone too long… It's nearly six," she said quietly. "I'm going to drop you off at my friend Akari's, and then drive around to look for him."

"I want to come."

Mikoto looked a bit surprised at his forthrightness.

"Oh honey, the roads are really bad right now. If there's an accident –"

"I want to come."

And Mikoto found she was unable to argue with him, despite the fact that what he suggested went against her better judgement, and every motherly instinct she had. Even though she wanted to ignore his request – she wanted him to nod meekly and curl up in her arms, her child – the hard-set determination in Sasuke's eyes told her she couldn't. Somehow, he seemed drastically older then. Older than he should be, anyways.

"If you want to," she told him. "I'll just go call Akari and tell her we'll be there a bit later…"

After she drifted back into the hall, Sasuke stood and made his way up to his room, subconsciously making his footsteps lighter as not to disrupt the silence that was the result of vacancy. He hated when their house was so empty like this. It had become barren, a pristine wasteland that was rotting away from the inside out. Soon all the supports would be gone, and all that would be left would be a thin layer of paint framing the shells of their furniture. And what then?

As he passed by Itachi's room after retrieving his duffel bag, Sasuke couldn't help but peer in. (Just one look, he told himself. Because it wasn't like Itachi was going to be there, or anything might've changed… it doesn't work like that.) The sheets were still a mess, as he had left them there that morning, but there, sticking out from beneath the pillow… Sasuke squinted, but in the darkness, he still couldn't quite make out what it was.

It's probably nothing, a voice inside of him remarked, but he ventured in anyways. It was funny, how different the room felt from the night before. The only differences were that Itachi was not there anymore and the lights were off, and yet it felt like another place entirely. This room where… again, he got rid of the thought before it could take root in his mind. He knew he was not ready for such things to haunt his mind on a regular basis; he needed a bit more time to try to figure them out before that, else he felt they might overload him. And he couldn't have that. No, he had to stay stable and rational until there was a time and a place where he could afford to break down. Being weak would do no one any good. He knew that much, at least.

Sasuke didn't bother looking for the light switch (though he knew the place exactly), going straight for the shape of white framed by the dark sheets and ignoring the darkness of the room. To get it over with?

Perhaps, he thought.

But as his fingers grasped it, he realized it was just a piece of paper, folded once in half. Feeling like an intruder for whatever reason, Sasuke was about to put it back down where it had been before, when a sudden burst of curiosity stopped him. Taking a step towards the door, where the light from the hall made everything clearer, Sasuke carefully pulled the paper open and recognized his brother's scrawl.

_Dear Sasuke,_

_Please keep this letter to yourself, and only yourself. It was written for just you, little brother, and feel free to burn it with the matches in the third drawer of my dresser (the one I hide the chocolates in) if you feel it necessary. You can have what's left of the chocolate too._

_I guess the first thing I should say is that I'm sorry. I'm sorry that I've dragged you into this and that you'll be…_

"Sasuke!"

He startled at the sound of his mother's voice, quickly shoving the paper into his pocket and rushing out to the top of the stairway.

"I'm coming!" he called, making a mental reminder to finish reading the letter in the car, or whenever he had time – which should be soon, he urged himself shamelessly. One foot after another, he sped down the staircase and into the hall with his bag held tight against his side. However, he slid to a stop as he was in sight of the open doorway, a pile of melting snow brought in with the person now standing there.

He caught his father's eyes and froze.

Sasuke wouldn't deny it – he was horribly afraid at that moment, and a little guilt was creeping up inside of him. No, he shouldn't feel guilty for anything, right? That was what Itachi said, and he had to trust Itachi. Even though his brother had seemed… well, a little strange again – a little sick, a little _off_, somehow – the night before, and things had changed, but… he could trust his big brother. He had to.

Another thought was extinguished, but afterwards Sasuke could feel a lingering, almost pleasant burn on his lips. He wasn't sure… his brother's actions had not seemed right in a way, but it was still acknowledgement. To see Itachi looking at him in that way, holding him that tight; it was all so gratifying. It made everything worth it. It made Sasuke feel like he was actually worth something.

"Welcome home," Mikoto was saying to her husband in the meantime, though Fugaku seemed to be dutifully ignoring her. Her lips stayed firm, and there was nothing polite about her tone.

"There are leftovers in the fridge that you can heat up to eat. Sasuke and I already did, so we're leaving now."

One eyebrow raised, Fugaku turned to his wife.

"And where are you going in this weather?" he sneered, glancing at the bag in her hands with disdain. However, he was losing control and they all knew it. His words were lacking their usual smarting heaviness. They were only words, after all – vibration in the air, unable to do physical harm.

"My son," said Mikoto coldly, "is missing."

Fugaku let the door fall shut behind them as they headed out, without protest. An empty house greeted him, buzzing with the vast quiet and the nothing that filled it. Completely hollow. Ruins – the remains of the castle they had started building on their wedding day. After working for so long to make it right, to make it the best it could be… looking at it now, he found how terribly short it had fallen of expectation.

'Where did it go wrong?' he thought bitterly, and dropped his briefcase onto the floor, if simply to hear the sound.

_**-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-боль-бог-**_

The snowflakes whirling around them shone vibrant and white when they were caught in the headlights, some sticking to the windows and glistening wetly as they melted. Though the storm had let up a little since the afternoon, there was still enough snow falling to make driving difficult.

"Damn it, where _is_ he?" Mikoto muttered to herself, clutching the wheel tightly. They had been driving for the past hour or so, and as they had secretly expected, the streets were bare – Itachi was nowhere to be found. It seemed silly, Mikoto knew, for them to be out looking for him like this, but Itachi was the type that would call if he was going to be late or had to stay due to bad weather. It just didn't make _sense_.

She glanced back in the rear-view mirror at Sasuke, who sat huddled in the backseat. Catching her glance, he shifted the paper on his lamp down a little. He had been reading the messy letter as best he could with the faint light provided by passing cars and streetlights, and was almost halfway through despite the trouble his mind was having with taking in what was written there.

…_and don't let him hurt you anymore. Please. I have a feeling I won't be around to protect you for much longer…_

"Sasuke, do you have any idea where he might be? Any place at all?"

Mikoto watched her son avoid looking up at her in her frantic state, and instead focusing his eyes out the window as she braked for a stop sign.

"I don't…" he started softly, but at that moment his eyes rose, catching sight of the road name. Balsam. How pleasant, he caught himself thinking, not cynically but…

"Turn left," said Sasuke, leaning forwards to make sure his mother heard him.

"Left here?" she asked, gesturing, and he nodded to confirm. What he could see of the street was run down; none of the small houses had lights on in them, yet if he squinted, Sasuke could see the park at the end of the street. The impulse might be wrong, and he could feel his stomach stirring, however, at least they had somewhere to look now.

"…this park?" Mikoto murmured. "You two used to come here in the summer, didn't you?"

"Yeah," answered Sasuke. Yes, there were the trees, their branches spindly and naked, benches piled with snow, and the empty space where the playground equipment used to be, save that lone swing set. On the leftmost seat, Sasuke could see someone hunched over, their head bowed so that their chin nearly touched their chest. The person remained immobile as the ends of the snowstorm whirled around them… statuesque. A work of art, abandoned.

Mikoto had barely stopped the car when Sasuke abandoned the letter and burst forth from the vehicle, kicking up magnificent sprays of snow all about him as he ran across the lawn. His coat had been left open, but it was only when he reached the swing set did the temperature really set in.

"Nii-san?"

Itachi didn't stir, though his body continued quivering from the cold. His eyes, just barely visible beneath the dark curtain of hair that had been blown over his face, were open, but he remained unresponsive to his brother's voice. Sasuke dared a hand on one of his brother's shoulders, pushing lightly.

"Nii-san, come on. What are you doing?"

No answer.

The snow continued to fall, adding another layer of white to the flakes already settled on Itachi's head and shoulders. Sasuke shook his brother again, calling him a little louder this time. Behind him, he could hear his mother's feet dragging through the snow as she made her way over, arms wrapped around her abdomen for warmth.

"Sasuke–"

Sasuke ignored her, and started shaking Itachi even harder. Frustration was spilling out of him, and as his brother refused to respond, Sasuke could feel his inadequacies piling up, one by one…

"Nii-san! Nii-san, what's wrong with you? Come on… stop this. Answer me… God damn it, Nii-san, stop!"

"Is he okay?" Mikoto asked anxiously.

"I don't _know_!" shouted Sasuke, taking a step back from Itachi. His loudness had surprised him, and his tone weakened to compensate. "He won't… something's _wrong_ with him."

"He's probably got hypothermia," Mikoto said. "We should get him to the car."

Carefully, Mikoto looped one arm around Itachi's abdomen and the other under his knees, somehow managing to lift him and carry him bridal style to the car. His senses had returned by the time she placed him gently in the backseat, looking up at them in dark-eyed confusion. It was painful, just how vulnerable he looked then, how childlike, how _broken_… Sasuke found himself unable to meet Itachi's gaze, and stared off at the playground instead.

"Get in," Mikoto urged Sasuke as she settled into the driver's seat. "We need to get to the hospital. And do up your coat – I'm going to have to turn down the heat a bit so he doesn't go into shock."

A little surprised how level a head his mother was keeping, Sasuke did as she said, sitting with his body pressed against Itachi in attempt to warm him up with body heat. It felt empty, their not-quite-embrace. Sasuke pressed his face into Itachi's shoulder, clutching his brother's arm tightly, but Itachi did not respond. He tried one desperate and weary, "Nii-san", but his throat closed up before anything more could come out. He felt stupid, he felt childish, he felt _pathetic_ but he couldn't help himself. And he damned himself for not even being able to look up at Itachi's face.

He knew he was too afraid of the possibility he would see that the Itachi he used to know was gone, and not coming back.

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Sasuke didn't remember much about the hospital that night besides the smell and noise. There was too much noise, he thought scornfully, too many voices – some crying, some laughing, some talking in hushed voices and others yelling, desperate.

People were dying in this hospital. People were dying, and the secretary behind the desk was putting up goddamned Christmas decorations. It was only two weeks away, wasn't it? He could barely think. He just kept staring at the wall.

"Nii-san…"

Curled up on an old couch in the waiting room with the letter clenched in one hand, Sasuke eventually managed to fall into a restless, dreamless sleep.

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The storm had let up sometime during the night. Snowploughs had since cleared the streets, piling the snow into dirty mounds by the side of the road, melting beneath the rays of a cool December sun. The ferocity of the storm had been forgotten, dissolved into a cloudless sky that stretched on above them, a perfect shade of blue.

Mikoto woke from a restless night spent on a floral couch in Akari's living room, and found she was exhausted. For a while she let herself stare at ceiling tiles, listening to cars drive by outside. It was the second Sunday in December – usually she would spend this day out with Sasuke and Itachi, Christmas shopping. They would get hot chocolate on the way home. Maybe later in the week, they would go skating… Wiggling her toes against the quilt thrown over her messily, Mikoto giggled girlishly to herself. She had always loved winter, particularly the days leading up to Christmas; they were always so much fun.

A siren wailed in the distance, and Mikoto sat up, rubbing her eyes sleepily. The quilt began to slide to the floor, and she remembered.

Today she had to go see her eldest son in the hospital.

After a short breakfast provided by Akari, a short but outgoing businesswoman in her mid-thirties Mikoto had met at one of Fugaku's business parties years ago, Mikoto and Sasuke drove back to the hospital. The ride there was silent, and after observing Sasuke's behaviour earlier that morning, Mikoto had already figured out her son had woken in a similar, perhaps worse mood than hers. He had a right to of course; they both did, after what happened…

"Don't worry," she told Sasuke softly as they pulled into the hospital parking lot. "Last night, the doctors said he's going to fine. He'll just need lots of rest, lots of care from us. It'll be okay."

She smiled, but he still did not look at her. It felt as though she had been talking to herself.

"Sasuke?"

"I know."

The sound of the car door shutting behind him made her flinch. Once more, he seemed older to her as she watched him walking away from her, blending into the washed out scenery around them.

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So here they were again, surrounded by white walls, white floors, white bed sheets and white coverings on the windows. The hospital was the same as it had always been.

There was only one chair in the small room, which Mikoto had offered to Sasuke. She stood beside him on the right side of the bed, hands clasped. On the opposite side of the room, Fugaku leaned against the wall, looking out of place from the rest in his immaculate business suit. Mikoto had decided it was necessary that he knew, and had called him reluctantly on a payphone the night before.

Though none of them could look at Itachi directly, especially Sasuke, they would all sneak glances now and then. He had propped up a pillow against the headboard so he could sit, but he looked like a limp rag doll who been dropped into that position. Unwashed hair fell across his pale face, darkened in places with bruises – he looked much paler, and much skinnier for that matter, than he had before. Almost corpse-like.

(_…of course, some people could be dead inside even though their bodies were still alive and moving, and that is the worst kind of death of all…_)

"Alright, Uchiha Itachi…"

There was a sudden burst of noise from the hall outside as the doctor came in through the door, flipping to a new page on his clipboard and straightening his glasses. Mikoto had met him the night before.

"Hi there," he said, nodding to Fugaku. "Good to see you, sir. You're the father?"

"Yes."

"I see. Well, your son suffered from a moderate case of hypothermia. It was fortunate your wife brought him in when he did – another half hour out there and he would've lost some fingers, though he did get some frostbite on the ends of the, as well as his ears, nose. That was a real bad storm last night, eh? Anyways, we warmed him up, so he should be doing fine as long as he takes the next week easy. I've put together a suggested diet plan too, so he can get back to good health faster. Yep, looks pretty good. They want to keep him here one more night until he gets a little more of his strength back, but after that you can take him home."

"Thank you very much," said Mikoto.

"Oh, it's no problem. Actually, it's my job." The doctor was the only one that laughed. "There was also, uhm… right. There are quite a few bruises on your son's body; not just the ones on his face, there are some on his chest too, and it looks like one of his shoulders is lightly sprained… I was just wondering if–"

"He came home like that Friday," Fugaku interjected. "He said he was in a fight."

"Ah. Well, that explains it," mumbled the doctor. His eyes scrolled over the page on his board, expression faltering as he reached the bottom paragraph. "Oh," he said, then "oh," again. He glanced at Mikoto and Fugaku.

"May I please see you two outside for a moment?"

"This doesn't concern her," said Fugaku, but Mikoto ignored him and followed the doctor out into the hall. The room felt large and vacant all of a sudden, as only Sasuke and Itachi remained in an uneasy silence. Sasuke kept staring at his knees, fingernails digging into the bottom of the chair.

Out in the hallway, the doctor's former sociability seemed to have vanished, replaced with a deep-set concern.

"It says here," he started, "that you arranged for Itachi to be sent to a mental facility in the next town over."

"What?"

"I did," said Fugaku. "I called the hospital this morning to tell them – the arrangements were made last night."

Mikoto tried to protest, but Fugaku continued.

"Do you remember the news reports about the teen who committed suicide a few weeks ago, doctor? That was my son's cousin and best friend. Of course, it's had a tragic effect on the entire family, but… well, you know how unstable adolescents can be. Itachi has been acting strangely for the past few weeks, and I think the strain put on him by schoolwork and extra curricular activities has pushed him to a point where he… broke." Fugaku glanced at the door. "And you saw him in there. The boy's not right."

"But that doesn't mean you have to send him to a goddamned asylum!" Mikoto said.

"The arrangements have already been made," Fugaku said sharply, disregarding her, "and he can resume school once he's in the proper condition to do so. You do want what's best for our son, don't you, Mikoto?"

The doctor jumped in before the argument could get any worse. "Well, it can't hurt, Mrs. Uchiha. It would probably be good for him, getting him away from stress and all. Anyways, I have to go. Best of luck to you both."

Mikoto waited – head bowed and hands clasped tight – until the doctor was gone to lift her head, glaring at Fugaku. He met her gaze with an apathetic stare of his own. The space between them had never felt so large, so empty. And that makes us all fatally human; there are over six billion people on this planet, and yet we are all alone, and unable to do anything about it. We can share our lives with people, but at the end of the day, you're the only person you can really trust.

"You probably saw this coming," Mikoto said, "but I'm filing for divorce."

"I know," said Fugaku. "Your lawyer called while you were out. You're moving in with your mother for the time being?"

"Yes."

An unsteady few moments passed where neither spoke.

"I want both of them – Itachi and Sasuke," Mikoto told him. "You can have the house and everything in it. I don't care. Just as long as I get the boys. I'm prepared to–"

"Mikoto, I'm not going to fight you for them. I don't want them so do what you want, and we'll work the rest out later," Fugaku said. Then he shook his head and left.

Mikoto sighed and let her body fall back against the wall. Though undoubtedly relieved, she knew she would probably end up crying about it later, if not now. There were still memories of when things had been different stored somewhere in her mind – when they had first started dating, when he made her a cake for her birthday and failed miserably, when he first made love to her… all those things would never change. Yet she still had no regrets. She had a small amount of personal possessions, an even smaller amount of money, no job, and two sons she would have to care for. But no regrets.

She thought to herself then, "Is this freedom?"

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"Sasuke."

That was his voice, of course, just the way it had always been but a little thinner, and yet…

"Sasuke, please look at me."

The mattress creaked again, and an alabaster hand entered Sasuke's field of view. He refused the urge to lean backwards in his chair to distance himself from it.

"Please."

It was a little painful, but Sasuke forced his eyes to travel from the floor, up the stainless steel legs of the hospital bed and over the soft folds in the white sheets…

"Thank you." Itachi's lips curved in what could have been a smile as he slowly retracted his hand. His eyes were still heavily glazed (partially from the drugs, Sasuke realized), but not as much as they had been earlier. There were places Sasuke felt he could see familiar bits of his brother – not this dazed, skeletal boy, but his older brother, his _idol_ – and Sasuke savoured them, trying to memorize them before they flittered out of focus and Itachi seemed a different, hollow person again.

"Did you get the letter?" asked Itachi softly.

Sasuke nodded.

"I knew you'd find it." Itachi closed his eyes for a moment, letting his body go limp again as he leaned back against the pillow. The room was too bright, and angular and ugly – Sasuke (inwardly blissful at more recognition from his brother, though it did feel off, maybe jaded) could understand why looking at it for too long would make Itachi want to close his eyes. Or maybe he was just tired. Sasuke didn't know, and didn't want to think about it anymore.

"I'm sorry," Itachi murmured. "I'm so sorry."

"It wasn't your fault," Sasuke tried, as he couldn't bring himself to blame his brother for any of this; however, Itachi didn't appear to be listening. His eyes were fixed intently on a point just past Sasuke, his expression slipping away from stoic to reveal features distorted with pain.

"I thought…" Itachi whispered, and Sasuke wasn't sure who the words were directed at. "I wanted to see how close I… but… I thought I was going to die. I could hardly feel anything, and I was so scared…

"It was wonderful."

(_In death, we become more aware of how glorious life is. There is only life because death exists as a comparison. Light and dark, cold and warm, meetings and partings, sanity and insanity, perfection and imperfection – these things can only be defined when the other exists. And when we see death, we can then see life, as if again for the first time. Like children, we're in awe, we retain some of that innocence, able to find and protect the little bit of goodness left within us. We no longer need our illusions – instead, we can see the perfection in what is right in front of us. Innocence is not naiveté, no…_

_Now, we can learn how to truly live!_

_However, some look back at life and find they prefer the cold breath of death, that taunting beauty, and become possessed by it. Some do not have a choice._

_In both death and life now, we find ourselves able to witness God…_)

Sasuke, startled and unnerved by his brother's behaviour, tried to pry his eyes from Itachi's face, though this proved an even greater task than getting them up there in the first place. He watched in an awe tinged with horror as a smile curled onto Itachi's lips, cold, and haunting, and frightful, and _lovely_. The elder stared down at his skeletal hands, clasped loosely in his lap.

(_…and was it worth it?_)

"Look at this. Look at what I've done. At what I've created – destroyed. Sasuke," he said without looking up, "do you hate me?"

Choking. "Do I –?"

Sasuke found he couldn't answer. He was too afraid to answer.

"After all of this," Itachi continued quietly. "Can you hate your big brother?"

"I –"

"But such a human thing it is, to hate or to love. We're all just a bunch of fools, loving and wanting things we can't have. My foolish little brother," whispered Itachi, but his smile faltered. "Oh God…."

One hand shot up from Itachi's lap to press into his temple, his eyes squeezing firmly shut (_I can't look at you now_) in pain. Sasuke watched Itachi's shoulders rise with each ragged breath he took, but was only able to watch. It was captivating in the same way it scared him so badly he doubted he could move. He didn't understand any of this, he realized bitterly, feeling childish, and _foolish_, and–

"Sasuke?"

Mikoto's smiling face in the doorway, Itachi staring quietly at the opposite wall – why were they acting like this? Everything looked almost the same, but the difference was obvious even to him, as if he were looking through a filter at the world.

"Sasuke, we have to go now," she was saying. "We should give Itachi a chance to rest."

"O-Okay," he said, getting (easily) to his feet and pausing a moment, uncertain, before Itachi (whom he was afraid to touch now, for what if his hand went straight through?) spoke.

"Good-bye, little brother."

And here was the touch of Itachi's hand on his wrist, pulling him closer, and Itachi's arms folding around him, yes. It should have felt familiar, but for a reason Sasuke didn't know, the embrace was empty and alien, as if they were strangers. Here were Itachi's soft lips on the corner of Sasuke's mouth (and Mikoto's averted eyes), so light it almost wasn't felt during that crushing embrace, squeezing tight, tighter, and then all of a sudden they had let go of each other. Sasuke waited while Mikoto hugged Itachi lightly, pressed her face into his hair (he was only 15, you know, he was still a child – _they were all just children_), mumbling to him, "Take care," and then without explanation, "Thank you."

As much as he wanted to, Sasuke forced himself not to look back as they walked out of that small hospital room, through the halls and then out into the bare parking lot. It felt strange, he thought, to be standing in the ruins of it all and looking back on it as a memory that felt barely real. But it had been real, all of it. And he had survived it.

Sasuke leaned back against the car door, warm from being in the sun all morning; he pressed his hands against it to soak up the heat. The sky was the same cloudless, burning blue it had been that morning, bright against the distant snow-covered rooftops and tangles of naked tree-limbs. There was a light breeze playing absentmindedly with the ends of his hair and brushing against his neck. A perfect winter day.

Sasuke closed his eyes and exhaled.

(…_you've got to live…_)


	10. Epilogue

**Deity**

Epilogue

notes: бог (God), боль (pain), конец (end). It's a little painful to post the end of this, but also very satisfying. Too many things inspired this for me to name them here. Thank you so much to everyone for reading and reviewing – you're wonderful, and all deserve happy endings.

"_To be godless is probably the first step to innocence," he said, "to lose the sense of sin and subordination, the false grief for things supposed to be lost."_

"_So by innocence you mean not an absence of experience, but an absence of illusions."_

"_An absence of need for illusions," he said. "A love of and respect for what is right before your eyes."_

- from 'The Vampire Lestat', by Anne Rice

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Dark strands of hair were hanging over his eyes – eyes cast downwards at his lap, not daring to look anywhere else. The memory of a pale face stricken. His hands, the hands of someone still a boy, were clutching his knees and his shoulders were tensed, doing their best not to tremble. Breathing. Then standing.

Then walking away.

The image of Sasuke ripples and fades smoothly, capsizing, and sinking beneath the surface without any resistance. Itachi is able to label this "memory", and lets the sensations that always come along with it die away, overthrown by the dull roar of the engine and the wind streaming by outside his window. His temple is pressed to the cool glass and there is a light sweat developing on his neck, sticky against the collar of his shirt. It's a warm Sunday in May; the afternoon sunlight is harsh, letting all the world erupt in brilliant colour as it races by. The leaves are greener, the flowers vibrantly yellow, pink, blue (because of the light, yes and that's all, right? Because he hasn't seen such things for a long time…). _Illuminated_.

"Itachi? Ah, you're awake."

His mother's eyes peer at him in the rear-view mirror. Kindly, he decides, (as he sees it that way). She's smiling.

"We're almost there, but you can sleep a little more if you want. It's a long ride, I know."

They hit a bump on the road and Itachi's limp body is thrown back a bit before he steadies himself once more. He likes that Mikoto isn't trying too hard, or forcing conversation (they'd spent the three and something hours since she'd picked him up in a comfortable silence). It would be unpleasant if she were trying too hard, or if he were trying at all. He closes his eyes again, just letting things be as they are. Letting himself adjust. Those two and a half years seem like a long time, just now.

It wasn't like he went all that time without seeing them, though. No, they visited on his birthday, on Christmas, a few times during each summer. Still, these were only glimpses of them – his mother, his brother, these people he used to know and who used to know him, but it wasn't really like that anymore. (In his mind's eye: Sasuke, taller and less boyish, handing him the gifts – always books – they'd brought with soft, delicate hands, but not looking at him yet. His family had separated from him, grown different in a way. The only way he could think of describing it was "brighter". Or had he become duller?) Things were _different_ inside there, but he got it all sorted out. Now he can keep it straight all by himself, and he's gone, finally – gone from days passed the same, over and over inside of that dull room, with those people trying to pry inside his head. They asked questions and questions and questions until finally it all spilled out!

He had been surprised, honestly, how good it felt when that happened. Cleaning up was a bit difficult, but it was done, over – "the past" (meaning not something he has to worry about anymore. So they told him. How? he wonders, because isn't his past and his memories what makes up "Itachi" as he is now? Perhaps "Itachi" has just created these things for himself…). He's got all this time ahead of him now that he has to think about. After the approaching summer finishes, he can go back to high school to finish up (he can pick up where he left off but it's not quite the same), and what after that? Anything he wants. He can choose anything he wants! Anything, anything, anything. What a word that is.

Again, he opens his eyes. This time they're turning into a gravel driveway, with large trees on either side, branches reaching up to the sky. Glancing back, he can see a field on the other side of the road, stretching on and on in waves of green and gold. Wisps of clouds floated just above the horizon, tangling with one another as the wind pushes them on, a single airplane cutting through the sky high above.

The car comes to a stop and Mikoto cuts the engine.

"Well, here we are." She leans back in her seat, rolling her shoulders a bit to release the stiffness built up from the drive. "You can head on in, look around. I'll get your things from the trunk."

"All right."

Itachi hops out of the car, feeling the blood in his legs begin to move again as he takes a quick, squinted look around. Hidden behind voluptuous branches is the house, it seems, its walls patterned in shadows cast by the leaves. It's not very large, with white siding and wild-growing flora scattered around its perimeter. This, where his actions have brought him, the future he had a hand in creating…

He inhales, thickly, and heads inside.

At first, as he carefully closes the door behind him, Itachi feels a little like an intruder. A little unwanted. But he shouldn't, he knows, because this is where he's going to live now. They want him to live here, with them, so it shouldn't feel so forced. He tries to relax a little as he slips off his shoes. It's nice inside. Streaks of translucent sunlight cut through the room, dust floating lazily inside of them – this is the living room, he guesses. There's a television against one wall with a sofa in front of it, and a half-filled bookshelf to the side. And on the far wall, there, yes, a piano (their old piano, has to be) with its cover open to reveal the keys.

He pauses a moment, uncertain, before taking a few steps forwards. There's a small landscape painting propped up on top, and a few picture-frames in front of it, some filled with old photographs and others new ones. His eyes roll over them slowly – he can remember when some of these were taken, and honestly it feels a tiny bit strange to look at himself in a younger state, and now, adjacent this…

"Hey."

Feeling as if he's been caught (doing what?), Itachi whirls around, one arm reaching back to stable himself. His splayed hand lands on the keyboard and a mishmash of tones ring loudly for a moment, disappearing again as he quickly pulls his arm back to his side. His breathing is short and heavy now but he tried to calm it, looking up, up further, _there_. Standing in the doorway, dark eyes focused on him, is Sasuke. It's the older, less boyish version of Sasuke who visited him and who now lives in some photographs.

"Hi." Itachi isn't sure what else to say. He discovers it's harder than he expected to look at this person – this new Sasuke that he doesn't yet know, this new Sasuke whom he _wants_ to know and is staring at him (curiously?). His sunburnt lips are held taut, inky strands of hair hanging about his head uncombed. He's taller now, definitely, and slimmer as well; a slender neck rising from out of a loose black – no, just a deep blue T-shirt, from finely rounded shoulders (but it's just a neck, just shoulders). _Maybe_, Itachi thinks, _I should look away_.

A soft "meow" comes from the ground by Sasuke's legs, where a chestnut brown tabby cat has begun weaving in and out around his ankles, demanding attention. This new Sasuke (he'd be eleven now, wouldn't he?) looks a little embarrassed, bending down quickly to scoop up his pet.

"Ssh," he tells it, holding the feline like one would a child. "Quiet, Phe, I already fed you." He looks back up at Itachi. "Her name's Ophelia. We got her… I dunno, a while ago."

Itachi wants to smile but settles for a nod, watching as the cat jumps out of Sasuke's arms and scampers out down the hall (Sasuke grimaces at the cat hair on his hands and wipes them on his shorts). _Should I say something?_, Itachi wonders. Probably. But what should he say? There's so much – maybe even too much.

Luckily, Mikoto comes in at this moment, her arms full of boxes. Sasuke rushes to hold the door open for her and Itachi ends up feeling useless. An interesting thing for him to feel, useless…

"Thank you," Mikoto says, glancing from Sasuke to Itachi, and back to Sasuke.

"Mom, do you need some help carrying all that in?"

"No, no, I'm fine. There's only one more." She strides across the room without taking off her sandals, calling over her shoulder, "but why don't you make some tea or something, Sasuke?"

Sasuke looks at Itachi, who is surprised by his brother's boldness, (and maybe a little frightened by it – a thrill it is to feel that again…). There's hardly any hesitance in that look. "You want some tea?"

Itachi nods, and follows Sasuke into the kitchen. The sun is prevalent here as well, shining through the curtains to fill the room right up. Mikoto has some chimes hanging in the open window, glinting and spinning as the wind saunters in.

"What kind?" asks Sasuke, rummaging through the cupboard.

"Any kind, I guess," Itachi says.

"Rosemary?"

"Sure."

"Mom's been on a tea kick lately," Sasuke explains quietly while they wait for the water to boil. "It's a little weird to be drinking it when it's so warm out, but she loves it. Last month she did a lot of things with eggs. She's…" He pauses, eyes thoughtful as he searches for the right way to say what he's thinking (and Itachi knows this can be hard). "She's been really happy the past while. Things were rough at first when we moved in, and she started working from home – she does advertisement design, that sort of thing. She paints as well, when she has the time. I guess she wasn't used to being so independent, but she really likes it now, though Grandma's right down the road if we ever need her. It's only a short walk into town, too.

"This place seemed like the middle of nowhere at first, but I don't mind it now. It's… oh, sorry, you've probably heard all of this before." Sasuke looks down, cheeks reddened (but only slightly).

"I don't mind," Itachi says. He quite liked listening to Sasuke talk, actually, settling into the rhythm of his voice (deeper now, richer). However, he doesn't say so.

The kettle begins to whistle. Steam rises from its spout, uncurling from tight ribbons until they're too thin to be seen any longer.

Leaving a cup steeping on the table for Mikoto, Sasuke and Itachi take their drinks out onto the back porch. No sunlight reaches them there, leaving a cool well of shadow for them to sit under. Sasuke takes a seat on the bench-swing and holds his tea tightly in his hands, blowing on the surface to cool it off (ripples, lapping against the sides and threatening to spill over). He glances up at Itachi, vaguely amused.

"You can sit down too, you know."

Staring at his reflection in the surface of his cup, Itachi does.

For a while they just remain there, soundless as they sip away their drinks. Itachi pretends to be fascinated with the garden beyond the railing (_all this life!_) but really, he's trying to sneak glances at Sasuke whenever he can. It will take time to adjust, of course, he can't rush it. It's hard not to, though. He wants badly to be a part of this again. Well, not again. This is a whole new thing here, a different thing – though is it really that different? He doesn't know. Nevertheless, he'll find out in time.

Sasuke leans down to put his empty cup on the floor, and then he pushes against the floor his feet so swing rocks a little – back and forth, back and forth (an innately comforting motion). He sighs.

"At first, I wanted to hate you. Thought it'd be easier that way – I wouldn't miss you if I was glad you were gone. It didn't really work though… And you know, now I'm glad that you're back with us," Sasuke is murmuring. "It does get a little lonely, being a two person family. I don't know where Dad is now, and _I don't care_." His voice is callous for those words, fingers tightening into fists. A few moments later, he calms. "Doesn't matter, I guess."

Yes, this new Sasuke is different in ways from the old Sasuke he used to know, but Itachi knows that he himself has changed too. It's unavoidable. As time passes, one changes, and grows, and has to leave childhood behind, eventually. But the death of the child marks the birth of an adult. Without change, there can be no progress.

"I think you'll like it here," continues Sasuke. "We saved the piano, in case you still want to play. You don't have to. I mean, I'd like you too…"

However, just because something changes doesn't mean what it was before will be entirely lost.

Itachi swallows his last bit of tea, lukewarm liquid trickling down his throat – a sensation. Everything was – the humming of bees in the garden, the casual brush of Ophelia's tail against his leg, the refreshing cool of the shade, and Sasuke beside him, pushing the swing gently with his feet. Impossibly intricate yet so simple and effortless, all at the same time. This is life, brimming.

This is a second chance…

Setting down his cup, Itachi reaches over tentatively to loop an arm around Sasuke's shoulders. Both of them pause momentarily as they touch (while the swing keeps going, back and forth), glancing at each other (eyes meeting eyes, _we're here, we're real_) quickly before the distance is closed. The familiarity of it is reassuring – Sasuke's temple against Itachi's collarbone, one of Itachi's hands in Sasuke's hair. The embrace is loose, and it feels right. This is right, it has to be, Itachi thinks, feeling Sasuke exhaled against his chest, heart beating strongly, swelling. Living – _we're living now, aren't we?_ _This has to be real, doesn't it?_

"Welcome home, Nii-san…"

**-конец-**


End file.
